Where is my home?

I was discussing with my friend if adapting to the country you live in is bad. Why should it be?

If you are enamored with a place so much that you will accept poor quality of living just to be in it, then you are making a mistake in my humble opinion. But you can be successful in any part of the world. Boundaries are man-made constraints. Even race is a social construct, a weak proxy for genetic diversity.

Then where is my home? Who are my people?
Home is where you feel welcomed and valued. Sometimes, it can be thousands of miles away from the place you were born in. And my people are those who cheer for me, who motivate me to do better, who help me evolve. My home is right here, in my present.

Old and new

The first coat of paint on an old patio chair. SG advised me to throw them away and get new furniture. I tried finding something I like online, but I didn't get exactly what I was looking for. Also, there is a joy in reclaiming old things that everyone thinks is past its prime.

The man at Home Depot suggested spray paint for beginners, but I wanted to feel a brush in my hand. It was therapeutic, though it  took several coats for the color to show. Of course, first, I used a fine grit sandpaper to make the surface even and then wiped the dust with a cloth. On a sunny day, it takes about 15-20 mins for the paint to dry to the touch. Make sure you do it in a well-ventilated area.

I spray-painted a table top just to see the finish. Prefer a brush. The flowers are acrylic paint. As you can see, I spilled water on the middle flower. Tried to fix it before I sprayed  the varnish. Maybe it is not a good idea to leave it in the rain, in spite of the top coat. We will see.

P.S. The varnish protected the acrylic flowers through El Niño.

Home

I'm sure every culture has a code for that one (following up on my post on 'The Culture Code' :D)

It brings to my mind a mosaic of images- Mom and Dad cooking for me, Grandma's caresses, lying on the grass lawn with my parents and watching shooting stars in the sky, Beena Didi, Ashu Kaku, my pet dog which lives no more, the treasured suitcase full of Tintin and Asterix comics under my bed, the cupboard that has all my soft toys and Barbies, the book shelves and movie collection, pictures on the wall and a myriad of other things. People and possessions.

But most of all - it means 'security'. In my childhood, however, I detested the idea of being driven around everywhere I wanted to go or have a home guard trail me everytime I stepped out of my house. Probably, an aftermath of a kidnapping attempt on me and my elder bro when we were kids. I wanted to explore the world on my own. See the colors and sights, try to sense what's good or bad myself.

When my parents came to drop me off at my hostel for my undergrads, I was excited. But then my cousin brother (Misti Da), who was residing in Delhi at that time, said: 'Don't worry, we'll be there if you need us.' It was antithetical. I knew I wouldn't be seeing my parents for a while. I had not taken this into account ! It was a beginning and an end.

Sometimes, kids start living outside their homes earlier or later than I had. Nothing new. My point is - most of you know how it feels to be away from home and probably attach a different meaning to 'home' now. It might not mean what it meant before. For better or for worse.

Growing up the way I am, being 'homesick' is considered a repugnant weakness or the aftermath of illness or inability. My mother always told me success stories which inevitably ended : '...and then he went to live there* (variable) and is doing great professionally.' Fairy tales were my own vicious indulgence. I don't remember my parents ever buying me Cinderella or Snow-white. Little Red Riding Hood - maybe.

So, when your éclat is judged on the magnitude of your well-being away from your home, it becomes a little embarrassing to admit how much you miss 'home' at times. Or the home you had as a child (contrasted with the possibility of your owning one yourself )

Anyways, all that rambling spurred from the likelihood of my going home this December. A toast everyone, to home, sweet home.

When tomorrow comes: chapter 3

This is the third installment of the series.

It was years ago, but it felt like it had happened yesterday. The smell, the sight, the colors were so well etched in her mind- she could almost live them again. Suddenly, she was glad to be going home. Even if it meant that a lot of things would have changed over the years, and the snapshots from her memory would have hardly any semblance to what she would see. She knew of the possibility- but it didn't disappoint her anymore.

Truly enough, a lot of things had changed. The airport of the small town had expanded and gnawed into the surrounding forest. She didn't remember seeing so many flights taking off or landing either. It was the mark of progress -or that is what some would have liked to believe.

She met her parents at the airport lounge. Her father brought her a bouquet of her favorite flowers and her mother smiled and hugged her quietly. She had always been a silent woman- appearing almost stoic. It took Pri years to realize that she was conditioned to be so. Expressing emotions openly was considered vulgar in the family her mother was wed to.

Pri loved the way her mother smelled. She had a unique fruity fragrance- her body esters. As a kid, she missed her when she went out to work and Pri would cling to her clothes and go to sleep in the afternoon.

She walked out with her parents. The luggage was taken care of. She greeted Dinesh Kaku who had been driving for them since she could even remember. She sat in the back seat between her parents. The usual questions followed. Dad asked if the flight was ok and the food was good. Mom kept smiling and looking at her with a smile that only a mother knew how to flash.

They crossed their old school on the way and she promised herself to find some time to visit it and the teachers who had taught her. She saw a yellow bus with her school's name on it. She looked at her father questioningly. He said: It's a State Government regulation now- all school buses and other forms of public transport are to be painted yellow -has been almost years since they have implemented it.

She sighed and thought of the bright colors the buses had when she was in school. Each one was painted in a different color- red, green, yellow, fawn. And each one had a name- after the sisters of the missionary school. The standardization made them look all alike and soulless. They lost their individuality.

Individuality. Identity. Those had been the mantras of her life. Her parents had made it very clear to her as a child that the only way a middle-class family kid could make a mark was by excelling in something. She look the advice seriously, and all her life till then, she had tried to raise herself to the next datum plane of existence - in every possible way.

Her father had gifted her the book ,'Jonathan Livingston Seagull' on her 16th birthday. And she believed truly that Jonathan lives each one of us. Now, she looked back and felt maybe it wasn't enough. She had done everything possible to be a perfect woman- and yet she wasn't happy. Something was missing. Something she couldn't put her finger on.

And then she knew..

(to be continued)