A home is a person. I think I realized this a long time back. I loved all the homes I've stayed with my parents. Every time my dad changed jobs, and consequently cities and homes. And then in his final assignment in pristine Tribeni, on the outskirts of Calcutta, he kept getting promotions and we kept changing homes. The last one was a colonial bungalow with an acre worth of gardens, and a view from the terrace of the river. It faced west, and I've witnessed the best sunsets of the world while tucked into a comfortable wicker chair, a cuppa tea in my hand, just watching the skies change colours through a thousand shades in front of my eyes. My mum has innate artistry, and in her heydays kept our homes immaculately appointed. The art and artifacts she'd picked up from her travels was displayed with an innante sense of aesthetics. Everything was squeaky clean and there was hell to pay if anything was found askew or a smite missed whilst dusting. And then I visited homes of some of my best friends. Messy, stuff thrown all over randomly, kitschy stuff fighting for attention with expensive mantelpieces, odours wafting from the kitchen. We could loll on the sofa, run in the drawing room and use any chair as wickets for an indoor match of cricket. And nobody cared when the balls hit frames and marks were left on the wall. This was lived-in, this was fun, and very quickly became the final definition for me of a home! I could sense the strange dichotomy I could not understand at a subliminal level. I was too young. So I spoke to my mum about it. How it was such fun being in that auburn disheveled house, and I could be 'myself', whatever that meant at that age. And in our house, there were so many rules - everything was restricted - running, throwing, jumping, shouting. She was silent for a bit, and then smiled and said. "Done. Go ahead. Do whatever you feel like. No issues." And gave me a hug. I was ultra-excited and invited all my friends home for the next raucous bout of indoor cricket. My friend entered the drawing room where I had shifted the sofa sets and the center table to create the 'pitch'. He looked around with his mouth open, in absolute awe, and then said something which turned everything upside down in my head. "Dekh, tera ghar mandir hai. Yahan baith kar shanti milti hai. Khelne ki doosri jagah hai na, mera ghar hai na. Yahan baith ke kitna acha lagta hai." ("Hey listen, your home is a temple. There is so much serenity here. There are other places to play, why play here? Let's sit down, I just feel doing that.") And I understood. Homes were people, their personalities, their beings, their inner selves finding expression on the walls, the decor, the sheets, the furniture, the conduct. And that was the day I learnt to immerse myself in all the homes I visited. Because the people I loved were as much their homes as they were the people I dearly loved. They were inseparable. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the places we find homes - A Home as an Open Dream Finally Home As We Meet at the End of The Day Subscribe to my newsletter 'The Uncuts' Follow me on Instagram at @sunilgivesup. Get in touch with me on uncutpoetrynow@gmail.com The details of the music used in this episode are as follows - A Sad Toy Story by Sascha Ende Link: https://filmmusic.io/en/song/a-sad-toy-story Licence: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license
