The Houses We Become: Every house has a story

"Every house has a story, a character, a memory and a soul."

Of dreamy windows and gardens

As I sit down to write on this topic, I feel overwhelmed with ideas, memories and experiences, and I don't know where or how to start... How to order my ideas, sequence my stories and imbue coherence in my writing at the same time. Maybe this time I shouldn't do that; I shouldn't follow a rule, and I should keep writing as they flow and let them make their own spaces as they wish...

A house remembers---- its walls, perhaps in particular. It remembers our laughter, silent tears, anger, grudges, and whatnot... at times, stories we even forget with time...

Houses have characters--- the place, time, people who lived in them, the colour of the floors, the texture of the paint, the hinges of the windows, the thickness of the walls, the ceiling, the direction of the sunrays--- every minute addition or subtraction calculates the depth of its character, the length of memory they have preserved in between those bricks and mortar...At times I marvel at their resilience!!! They have seen so much, endured and have become part of our history, not only of a country in general but also of the inhabitants in particular.

Houses have characters

We often say a house is what we build and a home is what we make of it...But I believe that long before a house becomes a home, it has witnessed the toil, dedication, and perseverance of people who never actually get to live in it—the architects, the labourers, the masons... we barely count their part, even as they unintentionally become part of our dream, our story...

I always notice houses wherever I go-- be it a small hut in a village, a mansion, an apartment, the clothes hanging on the balcony, the chairs, those dreamy French windows, the old mango trees in the gardens, the fresh smell of a newly painted house, the designs of the floor--- I notice every odd thing; they have so many stories living in them-- of people once loved and forgotten, of loneliness, of madness, of scarcity, of abundance, of fights, of love, of banter and of prayer... They somehow seep into me, transport me, and in that fleeting moment become the narrative of my story —I interpret them as my prototypes...a part of my peculiar imagination!!!

Of childhood and more

The concept of home holds different meanings to different people. For some, it's a place they come back to after a hard day's work; for some, it's a place they visit once in a while to see their old parents, their homeland; while for others, it's just a memory they will never be able to return to.

A forgotten house

The houses where we live, the neighbourhood we choose, the voices, the family we coexist with, gradually become us... the lanes we take every single day to reach our dwelling place, the flickering street lamp at night, the smell of samosas and jalebis as we cross the shops--- all of them add to what we call 'Home'. That feeling of comfort is so specific, so familiar, and symbiotic —first we make the house, and then the house makes who we are...the houses we become: every house has a story to tell.

Have you ever noticed how a house feels empty after your child leaves for school, or your close ones bid adieu after staying for a few days —that weird feeling in the stomach, that tightness in the chest, those drops of tears at the corner of your eyes?? How the same house feels different, like a stranger!

The lost view of veranda

Last December, while I stood on the veranda of my parents' house in Kolkata, I felt a conflict within me...those very lanes, those windows of the buildings that were once so familiar to me, the presswala in front of our building, the sounds and chatter, the plants, the flowers —every object seemed so distant from me. Either I couldn't identify with them, or they couldn't recognize me; those narrow, winding, confusing lanes, which I knew by heart as I went to my tuition classes, seemed so remote in my memory —a part of me that seemed to have forgotten me... I don't know how to put them into words so they sound convincing and comprehensible at the same time...I saw a different me in my reflection on the glass of the building opposite me...A part of me belongs here, my roots, a part of my identity that disagrees to be amputated from the body of a life once lived in its entirety, while another part feels so anomalous, incongruous.

Like others, a house is not just a place where I live...it's much more and beyond that. It's an extension of who I am--- my wall paintings, the colours I chose painstakingly, the designs of my drawers and cupboards, the shelves where I keep my clothes and books, the cups and pans that I use, my plants in the verandah--- every nook and corner speaks to me, of me...

But most often, a house is meaningful to me for the people who live in it...maybe what we seek is not just the shelter, but the ones we love and care for, who make the home a living place to be in...a place we often call 'ghar', whether in Hindi or in Bengali...the language ceases to matter; the feelings do.

"You are my home

where I am seen and heard

without being judged,

a place I can be me, just me

I feel safe in your arms,

as I aspire to do the

same for you with all my love..."

By Nandini Sengupta

@metaphors_of_life