Roots

Partial sanity has been restored. Enough for me to sit up and notice the world around me.  The last few weeks were a blur of pack, unpack, clean, repeat. It was a bittersweet month, of many first and last memories.

It was probably the last time I got mehendi applied sprawled on my favorite mattress.  The last time I dragged the big stool around the house to climb into the loft and bring down a lifetime of baggage. The last time the mother told me to dust my study table and check the post.

It was a month punctuated with flying tempers, copious tears and chipped fingernails. I had no idea that getting acquainted with a set of four walls would be so emotionally draining. I keep searching for reasons to return home. Once, it was electric paraphernalia. Another time, I insisted I needed some memorabilia to brighten up the new room. The third time, I simply said I wanted to go home.

Returning to that space is heart-breaking. The bare walls scream for my attention. The dusty tables beckon me. And the idle cushions pretend to glare at me. The three of us are usually silent on all these trips, each savoring our own set of memories of those abandoned walls.

Sometimes, when I’m all by myself, and no one is looking, the eyes get a little moist longing for that house, which gave me the first-ever sense of belonging. It turned my parents into individuals. It gave me my mother and a friend. And it gave the three of us roots.

Sometimes, watching this video on loop helps!

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5 comments

  1. Pingback: A memory of memories «

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