Of the few lessons that life has managed to finally get me to learn, one of them has been about what the word 'home' means. And from the time I stepped out into this world to greet the sun, till as early as this morning, 39 years and some months later, it has been a lesson I am still learning, still discovering new things with every turn of the page, and with every chapter I cover.
For there have been innumerable pages filled into dozens of chapters. A complete half devoted to Kolkata, my 'hometown' as I call it, even though I am native to one of the most conservatively Tam-Bram localities called Thyagaraya Nagar or T. Nagar, a piously snobbish, unforgivingly rigid, bustling and sprawling area of Chennai city, dotted perhaps with a few score more temples than most other places in the South of India. But Chennai was just the place that happened to harbour the nondescript hospital where I was born, for within six months, I was transported to the land of fertile fields, hard-working happiness, rice-heaped plates, hilsa, sandesh, the songs of Durga, and the sights and smells of the Hooghly. That city, Kolkata, was, and forever will be, my 'hometown'.
But my 'hometown' to me means a home outside the confines of the 'home' - the area within the metaphorical four walls (for there are so many walls in houses these days, and so many rooms, one can get veritably lost within) which is an idea as deeply rooted as our perception of our individual identity itself. I = Bhavani goes hand in hand with "My home is in ----"
For most of us, the blank get filled instantly, as our mind populates it with one name - could be the name of an apartment complex, or a street, or even a city... but those are just names to provide a locus for an idea that is far beyond just four (or fourteen) walls and a roof that provides a place to shelter in. It is as if it were a living entity, a thing with feeling, a thing capable of providing warmth and comfort to a wounded soul. It has a smell that stains our memory forever, and no matter which corner of the earth we may wander in, just a whiff of that smell makes that idea alive, vivid, almost as if it were a three-dimensional virtual reality that could surround us at the click of a button. It has smells, yes, just like people have characteristic smells.
It has sounds too. I remember the sound the front door used to make in Kalyan Kaku's house. (Mr. Kalyan Guha was not the owner of the first ever house I learned to call home, in Azadgarh, South Calcutta. His elder brother was, but I hardly ever met that man. Instead, it was Kalyan Kaku who lived on the first floor with his wife and two children, and it was him that we had occasional owner-tenant type of fights with, and it was his daughter Sanchari who was one of my first friends growing up. So, it was Kalyan Kaku's house, which was where my 'home' was.)
The front door had an interesting system. It was the latch of old times, the one that involved a heavy, tubular iron rod traveling within a hollow cut channel affixed vertically to the top of one of the doors, which, when slotted and lifted, could run upwards into another ring attached to the frame of the door at the top, and finally, when turned to one side, could be 'locked' in place, securing the door shut. (I can see why my writing is often considered laborious, I don't blame anyone reading this for thinking so. But just for the sake of posterity, for whom tape recorders are an unheard of thing, I request a bit of patience and a lot of imagination.)
Now, the front door of my home had this latch system with a unique twist. Through some mischief of the carpenter or of Mother Nature, the rod that ran inside the groove would simply sit in place even if just pushed upwards, and did not need to be turned sideways to be locked. In normal cases, it would fall back, because only by turning sideways, the knobby handle part of the rod could be made to enter another secure groove on the side which would prevent it from sliding back down. Technicalities, once more.
But the net result was that the heavy knobby part simply remained in place, fastening the door shut, even without needing to lock it. And, the best and most magical part in my childish mind was how, to the select residents of that house, we knew that when we came back from somewhere, we didn't have to ring the bell and wait for Amma to open the door. We were keepers of the secret knowledge that we simple needed to pull the two door handles (which were basically two rusted bangle-sized iron rings attached to each door on the outside) simultaneously, and the knobby rod would be loosened in its groove, allowing it to just 'drop' down, and thereby, opening the door. Of course, it presupposed that Amma didn't 'turn' the knob sideward, but just left it stuck in its special secretive system.
And when the rod did drop, it made a sound that even today, I can recall. It was the sound of a heavy knobby rod dropping into a channel. Well, sure, of course. But there was this weird mini whoosh and a sucking noise that accompanied that drop, as if someone were trying to suck out a single, fat, chewy pearl from a tumbler of bubble tea through a big straw. Shwooooauckkk. Something like that. (I just tried pronouncing it a couple of times and fiddled around with the vowels until I think it sounded just about right.)
Shwooooauckkk. Followed by a dull metallic clunk. See, that was a sound that for me, made my 'home' a living, breathing thing.
And many other little details that have now grown mouldy and dusty with time and age. Age, mostly. Oftentimes I sit back and screw my face in concentration (I realise it later that I must have done that), trying to remember the details with more vividness. The rectangular grille that covered the large, front windows in addition to the curvy window grilles themselves. That was for added security, but it was rusty and a very 'unstylish' imposition on the front facade of the house itself. But I cannot for the world think of those windows without this grille squatting smugly on the memory. This is but one of the pictures that complete the canvas that is 'home'. And perhaps, in time, I will sit and detail out every single one I can remember, at the cost of making my writing the most tedious writing in the whole history of personal blogging. Not that I care about that. Nothing is as valuable as our memories.
So 'home' therefore, is not just a place. It is a person. It is a living thing. A creature that surrounds me and keeps me cozy, and watches me laugh and cry and grow up through my experiences. It is a creature that contains the spirit of the life I have lived so far.
Unfortunately, today, I find myself struggling when I try to fill the blank in "My home is in ---"
The 'home' in my 'hometown' - in Kalyan Kaku's house - comes to my mind after a pause. But then something tells me that's not the first answer that I should be reaching out for. For that's 39 years ago. And it has been well over 30 years since I moved out of that home.
There must be a 'home' now, no? Or, maybe a year ago, when I lived in Colombo? Two years ago when I lived in Singapore? Or how about seven years ago when I lived in Bangalore?
I find myself at a loss right now. It seems wrong to dismiss all those homes, and the ones before them too, where I lived and made memories that I will cherish for life, as not fitting the bill. It seems like I'm being unfair if I said that none of those places ever felt like 'home' for me. Saying that, in fact, would be a giant lie. I am sure as hell I was attached to each wall in each house I have lived in so far, and I know for a fact I have cried when I had left those houses, 'homes,' each one of them.
But none of them have a hold over me as my childhood home does. Perhaps this is exactly how every single person on earth feels about their 'home' and I just have to ask to corroborate it. Perhaps I'll get unexpected answers that set me apart as a stupid, overthinking woman. Perhaps still, I'm an avant-garde thinker that the world has yet to discover and acclaim, and will one day heap praises on me.
But for now, my lesson continues. And I hope that in the next parts, I can pour out the feelings and paint the memories that give the word 'home' meaning to me. Not just my childhood home, but every house I have lived in and loved to its last dusty corner.
Good night.
12 Jan, 2022.
