What Makes a House a Home?

The house my dad lives in right now, has been home to many. It has opened its arms to different people and versions of those people, before I was even conceived. 

It has nestled my dada during his illness, but also when he was fit enough to play with me and my cousins, or rather watch us play while having a whiskey. It has seen Ahaan in his peak footballer phase, when even 9 pm was too late to stay up during family dinners. It has seen Aadi, Ahaan and I make our own version of Takeshi’s Castle on the old TV room sofa, one of the seven wonders of the world, because you could take the seats out and stack them up to make a slide. It’s a marvel how none of us got injured. It has seen gambling addicts, who only come out during Diwali season of course, playing on the big stakes table, and the kids and more laid-back adults (my dad) playing with 10s and 20s on the drawing room floor. It has seen countless people, those whose faces I could not even recognise, in and out of the house during my grandparents' demises. As unfamiliar as they seemed to me, they did not seem to find the house unfamiliar. It has welcomed new additions to the family, and has seen many leave. It has been filled with the aromas of Ramu’s rendition of dadi’s infamous khow suey recipe (a dish I still need to check the spelling for every time, seriously how is it not spelt as cow’s way?). It has witnessed fights, butt itself into awkward silences, heard bursts of laughter and been filled with the chatter of possibly hundreds. 

At this moment, the house is resting, much like my dad who is snoring as I write this. As the morning light seeps in sparingly, it prepares itself for another day. The dining table is decorated with plastic cups and chips packets that were never opened from the night before. The kitchen counter is sticky from the coffee I spilt on it and have tried my best to clean up. My room’s bed stays messy, reflecting a failed attempt at getting a decent night’s sleep. The middle room is mostly a second store, till Apu Chacha comes back. It looks like a second store when he’s here as well, just instead of spare books and furniture, it’s filled with his shoe boxes and random wires. The actual store houses my dream of being converted into a darkroom, during my ‘I only shoot 35mm film’ phase, when I took extensive advice from my dad’s friend, Saurabh uncle, but some dreams are not meant to be fulfilled. The drawing room remains mostly untouched, a museum of my dadi’s spirit. The newly renovated TV room, where I sit right now, typing this in a half-dazed state, bopping my head to You Only Live Twice by Drake, recovers from the absolutely ridiculous half-drunk game of dumb-charades my friends and I played a few hours ago. 

What makes this house a home is not the adornment of the walls or the collection of artefacts from my grandparents’ voyages around the world. While they certainly give it an identity, what truly makes it feel like a home is the fact that it has comforted so many people. Relatives flying out from different cities and countries, my friends who have gossiped for hours on end in probably every room, my parents having lunch together once in a while and talking about me as if I’m not sitting right there. I like to think they all know they are welcome here. 

So till further notice, this house will always be a home, for you and for me. 

But don't overstay your welcome.