Home is where the heart is
Stories of home from all over
Everyone has a cozy nook, where they get lost doing their everyday things. I am trying to think of mine.
My mom jokes, “If you want to find Nithya, just look for the horizontal thing around the house.” Yes, you will mostly find me lounging somewhere in my home.
Our most relaxed state of existence is inside our homes. Second, only to the time spent floating in the cozy amniotic womb. Small space, zero rent, no complaints.
I have had 3 memorable homes. Every shift has been the same emotional ride. The evenings before I leave one house to move into the next, I look at every corner of the room — unlikely places, where I have never laid my eyes on. Like the heater, or the overhead storage or the less favoured balcony. I think to myself, I have never observed these spaces enough and it’s been in my home for years.
I vow to take interest in these boring details in my next house.
My current jobs requires long periods of staying away from home and around the eve of every journey, I spend some time looking at the corners of my house.
My first job was in a real estate company and a sales guy there explained, “It’s people’s biggest dream to own a house. They shell out their life savings for it. You show them what they want to see and they will pay the price you quote even if it means they are going into a bit of a debt.”
I remember smirking, what an awful waste of money. I would never do that.
Every house has a distinctive scent. It’s hard to miss. I remember going to my friends homes and would be welcomed by a wave thick with a unique smell. I wonder what gives off that scent. It’s difficult to describe if it comes off from food or furniture. I tried to figure out the scent my house would give. I was so acclimatized to it, I could never figure it out.
This year, I spent 3 months of the Indian summer in a desert. Roasting like a rotisserie in the middle of Rajasthan. Luckily, I would have pitstop for a day or two at Mumbai. There was my second home, my Chithijaan’s (Aunt). A particularly worse day after a travel in the sweltering heat, a passive aggressive email from my manager and the discovery of a friend who was a foe in disguise had royally fucked up my day. To top it, my flight was delayed and I was stuck in the traffic at 2am.
I stumbled with my luggage and rang the doorbell. A smiling CJ answered the door, a familiar scent crinkled my nose. Tears flooded as I hugged my aunt.
— -
The terrace
My terrace has seen it all. The angsty teen who loved Green Day. The girl who built her confidence through college. The frustrated fresher who was paid an obscenely low salary with zero plans for the future.
The terrace also saw happy days, like when I had a ‘moonlit’ dinner with my family. It was a wholesome Pongal with kozhambu.
I usually entertain guests at home with an unnecessarily complicated 3 to course meals. After dinner, I invite them to the terrace.
We lie on the cool floor and look at the black expanse above. A solitary star burns. I tap the shoulder of my guest
“I only bring my favourite people here.”
—
Is it just me or did I sound like a serial murderer with a killer MO?
—
It is probably a good time to share that I am a civil engineer. I remember writing in the first year of my college. I am a Civil Engineer because I want to put a roof over every head!
Engineer or not, I was (am?) a true showman. I always wanted a flair to everything I did. Speaking of showmanship, I started writing for a student newspaper in this very nook of my home. Everything in this room is now differently oriented than 10 years ago when I first started writing. From the bed to the dresser. However, I stay put, in my little corner, typing away.
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For the sake of the audience, I did put a roof over some middle to upper middle class heads in the first year of my career. In the second, more fulfilling year, I worked for a shelter fund which focused on housing the urban poor, industrial workers and working women.
