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A journal entry

The Indian classical music in the distance lingers into the room uninvited bringing an immense peaceful vibration. The chatter of the grandmothers worrying about how the prices of tomatoes have gone up also seeks space in the air while I sip the chai my grandmother just made. It is hot, hence I rest the cup on my lap while the smell of spices rise into the air competing against the sounds. There is chaos in the air, yet with it comes a sense of familiarity.

The four walls that held my presence — temporarily — understood aspects of my soul. For years I questioned the idea of Home. Where do I truly belong? But the picture of my grandparents smiling — that hangs above the jasmine plant beside the jhoola in the living room teaches me that maybe home is in a smile. The jhoola that slowly dances to the tunes of the breeze while it creaks tells me that home is in sound. The cool marbled floor that transports me to the yard where I feel the soil tickle my feet tells me maybe home is in touch. The house stands on four walls that are now old. They have held this house for years but each year, my grandparents colour the walls to make them appear shiny. But through the gloss, you can feel the weariness. The cracks of the wall that show you the history. The rusty metal cupboards which have stored my mother’s toys when she was a child, her school uniforms, her wedding saree, her baby’s blankets , now— remain open — waiting to be fed with more memory. The stove in the kitchen that has cooked several hundred meals for many. It remains lit and emits a sharp smell of rustic spices while the heat is felt from a meter away.

My grandparents have now left the house and this plane. Today, the doors of this house remain closed while the jhoola is still hanging like their picture of them still smiling. The walls still shiny, the cupboards open, the stove left in a corner with no one to feed and the cupboards left with emptiness. Maybe home not only is a sound, a smell, or touch. Maybe it’s memory. It is presence but most importantly, what you make of it.