what is home? a bunch of keys that i have been in possession of that open a lock which i know is home. the bunch of books which lie stacked neatly in a corner on my book shelf is my book mark for my home. the building of mortar and bricks changes after every couple of years. the bend of the street leading to the home changes after every few years.
the lack of permanence is unsettling. My memories are divided over the cluster of years that have been spent in each house that I have stayed in. I sometimes get nightmares about the room where one of my landlords used to stay. It is a recurring image of that house.
My home is not a memoir of my growing years. It is more a marker of where I stand in the present. I feel more affinity towards the suitcase that carries my things each time I go back to my city and to my house.
Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to watch the tree grow that my mother had planted in front of our old house. I wonder what happened to the eucalyptus trees outside one of our houses. Would they still sway with the wind? Would they still cast their shadow above everything? Those trees have long been chopped off. But my mind still holds the memory when I tried to touch the silvery bark in the hope that I would never forget that those trees existed. Those trees were home for me.
In my current rented accommodation , I scatter familiar objects such as my lamps and books acquired over a period of time. They are my anchor. More than the building of bricks and mortar which houses me. As I get ready to vacate yet another house and and move to yet another dwelling, I will carry these same objects to maintain the string of continuity.
My house will change again after the past 4 years that I have lived in this city. I will carry with me my memories of these last few years and my collection of paintings. Move to a new place and create yet again a semblance of home.
