There was a time when there were no expectations. There was a time when there was an embraced simplicity in just being. When the aspect of leaving home was far, far away in time. When I could see in bright colours. Sometimes the memories hit me square in the face- the reminders of light heartedness and lungs full of air. I watch them standing at the edge of a well of nostalgia so deep it could reach the center of the earth.
The very particular smell of detergent and handwash used at my house and the breeze cutting through it, through the house from the window of one room to that of another.
The tree standing in the middle of my building that we used to play around, that I had tried painting from the window when I was a child. The tree that I had felt immense loss for when they cut its branches down, its glory all having gone.
The pigeons my sister and I used to stare at for hours after school from that same window. How we’d trace their movements and make up fantasy stories about them of how it’s their kingdom, how they’re off to war when they all take flight together, getting jumped by someone throwing grains at them.
The gate of my friend’s building I used to enter so often; the one that I had plotted on the map my father had made me draw of the area of my house when I was a kid, before letting me go out the house alone. The friend we used to have dance competitions with, play football with. The friend who had introduced us to the shortcut of a galli which is so narrow that only one person can go through it at a time. The friend who’s gate we don’t enter anymore after he stopped entering ours.
The market street down my building lit up in golden light at night from the vegetable stalls on both sides- the shopkeepers closing in for the day while I returned from my dance class, feeling the cool atmosphere on my sweat beaded skin, exhilarated from the endorphins produced in my body. The market street that is always busy with pedestrians commuting in numbers that create traffic. The market street that gets filled with drums and colours and chariots and dance every time there is a religious festival. How we’d run to sit on the windowsill to watch it all, just like my father and his brother used to do when they were kids.
The blue indie lampshade that was in my room when I was a four and used to sit in front of my mother and stare at her face while she meditated with her crystal beaded mala. How that very memory is probably why I have such affinity for blue because it reminds me of a simpler time, a time when I used to wish to grow into being just like her. A simpler time when there were no consequences yet to the experiences I was experiencing. A simpler time of fairy tales and dolls and salt running down my cheeks of my tantrums.
I write this as I’m sitting at home on the soft cushion of my favourite spot, nostalgia hitting me by the smells and the sounds of the movements I’m surrounded by. After the active days of responsibility, independence, constant drive of making something out of oneself. After constant exhausting effort in making friction to create warmth that would familiarise unfamiliar places. I write this as I’m sitting at home, experiencing the simplicity of being. Being in a space so welcome, so mine, so comforting.
At every phase, every timeline of our life we have built it- built the life encircling our home. We have hopes and aspirations to leave it and grow ahead. The aspect of leaving home has long arrived, the phrase ‘to return home’ holding so much power. Power to trigger emotions. Power to remember, to reminisce. There are other people each following the same. We each have our little lives, our little homes where we belong that are so difficult to leave. It takes a little time.
We find home in others.
i’ll eat
Painfully beautiful