A block of Bricks and Cement

This post comes as an outpour. I just needed an outlet for all those emotions I face and just need to put into words the pain. It is amazing how the human mind attaches significance and importance to small and material processions. It is amazing the way the memories surface suddenly. Memories not remembered once in the past 8 years come out suddenly. My blessing and my bane, my memories.

It has been 8 years since I lived there; the longest period I spent there in the past 8 was a mere 120 days. But I have attached so much significance to the walls created of bricks and mortar. I hated the house when it was built. I remember vividly rushing off to granny and crying about the collapsible iron grill door. I termed it ugly. But I lived with it. I remember the first pooja, the ground dug for the foundations and the red ants that pestered everyone, the weed removal process and 10 paisa per weed incentive my granny gave me and brother as a motivation. I remember moving into the house and creating memories. Late nights over cups of lemon tea as V prepared for her board exams, early mornings spent in the marble steps laughing, talking and fighting for the newspaper and the numerous festivals we celebrated there.

The past 8 years I have thought about the house but it was never so emotional. Probably the most emotional being when I packed up my room and cleared out stuff 3 years back. I have not stepped inside the house for the past 2-3 years. But today with the talk of selling the home, the emotions that came out surprised me. For some reason, all reasonable thought evaded me. I can never think of it as a block of bricks and mortar. It was not just another house but home. Will I ever get ready to say good-bye to it? I guess I just have to prepare myself for the inevitable.

Pretty soon, it will just be memories.. and before I say good-bye I hope I have a chance to run my hand through the window grills, dust-painstakingly every showcase that once was filled with memorabilia from all over, decorate the door step with a kolam just like years long gone, pluck and eat the fresh guava off the haphazardly growing tree in the corner, string the fresh jasmine from the garden, walk to the sweet-smelling frangipani flower plant the first thing in the morning with my morning cup of maltova and enjoy its intoxicating smell, hear the watertank fill up and scream out "motor over aadu", sit around the dining table and enjoy our last supper there...

But with the house being rented out, the members that constituted that happy family once spread out around the world, will it ever happen? I can just dream and hope for the best. No wonder they say, "home is where the heart is"