Home. This word grasps so much more than just four alphabets. I left the home where I was born when I was about five years old. Nevertheless, the new place steadily turned out to be another ‘home’ for me. I spent a colossal fragment of my childhood in this house. Then, when I was fourteen, we repositioned to yet another address which is my home now. In due course of years, I have realized that our home is not the physical construction made up of bricks, walls and paints; our home is more of a feeling, an emotion built from love, togetherness and a family. Our home is made all-embracing by the people we live with and that particular sentiment of knowing that this is the place you can effortlessly count on. That’s what I miss the most about home: the liberty of taking things for granted.
I left my parents and my family roughly two years back when I started working. Frankly, I needed to leave to be able to find myself. I needed to leave to be independent, to take decisions, to toil harder, to come out of the shell I had created for myself. I needed to leave to exist as myself entirely. However, when I muse over the twenty-two years I spent at home, I comprehend how painless it was to take people for granted. This does sound self-seeking and yet this is so true. It was easy to yell at Mom when she offended me. It was easy to argue with Dad and sob when he reprimanded me. It was easy to confide in my brother or to exasperate him with being who I was. You know why all of this seems so uncomplicated when you’re home? Because you know that these are the people who you will love no matter what they do and they will love you just the same notwithstanding what you do. Home, in some way, lets you be your real self. It gives you the freedom to show your displeasure, to scream, to tease, to chuckle, to love, to hate and to make yourself be heard. I yearn for that emotion of knowing that ‘people’ will always come back to me.
At home, we hardly ever need those prim and proper apologies to make situations all right. My mother never ceased to cook food for me on days we had a brawl. My father, even if fuming mad at me, would still bring my favorite fruits and tidbits when he went to the supermarket. My brother would take utmost thirty minutes to get back to laughing with me after we had had an exchange of screams and swearing. Home lets you ‘belong’ to a place, to some people, to a sentiment that cannot tone with anything else you experience. Home edifies you to forgive, forget and move on without any baggage, without any resentment.
The last two years pressed on me to mature in some unexplainable ways but what they took away was the privilege that allowed me to take things for granted. The bare old feeling of belonging; of owning every damn thing that’s around you: the bed, the sofa, the chair, the TV, the lamps, the lights, the garden, the terrace, the food in the refrigerator, the pens in your sibling’s drawer, the camera in your father’s cupboard, the books in your mother’s wardrobe, the love in people’s heart. We all recognize that our home is where our heart is; but I’d slightly add on to it and say: Our home is where our people are.
*I wrote this post as a response to the Daily Post’s prompt which asked bloggers to write about the thing or person they miss the most about home when away from home. I never write on WordPress’ Daily Prompts but the subject somehow compelled me to reflect on it.