Home- Status, Love & Politics
Yeh tera ghar, yeh mera ghar
Kisiko dekhna agar
Toh pehle aake maangle teri nazar, meri nazar
You are familiar with the chawl system if you have ever visited Mumbai. Originating in the 19th century to deal with the influx of labour migrants. Power dynamic at max to deal with unequal distribution of land perpetuated by British colonialism. My paternal grandparents were one such migrants to Mumbai, actually a suburb,Thane (then just a tiny tiny town). Gandhivadi, the name of the community. 200 sq feet home which included the kitchen, seating area, and a loft (converted into a bedroom) inside the house to accommodate for everyone. A tiny bathroom but the toilets were common and outside homes. The house was open to one and all. My mother got married and moved into that home from her sprawling 2BHK government quarters in Delhi. That house was the launch pad for many dreams. There was always enough food for everyone, family and friends and strangers. My grandfather would really get anyone home. And there was laughter, a lot of it.
We would visit on occasions. By the time we were born my parents moved from their 1 room kitchen to a 1BHK. A big privilege. As I started to grow up, I noticed a strange emotion choking me at times. I think it was shame. I had friends who had a 2 BHK and my house seemed really tiny. We were in college by the time we graduated to a 2BHK. Then the shame shifted from the size of the house to what’s inside the house. Did your furniture and carpet match those you perceived as better than you? If you had a carpet that is.
The days I miss most fondly are the ones we would eat together on the floor, piping hot food. My mother always made fresh food, no matter how tired she was after her long day at the office. . Never compromised. “Rasam rice, really?? For dinner?” Inika asked in her classic tone of disbelief two days ago. My heart yearned to go back so I sat on the floor and ate to my soul’s content. While my teak wood dining table looked on…
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads
“Achamma” all my roads led to this one word, my whole universe. Achamma is home, home is Achamma. Growing up the only roof I needed over my head.
Always known to be a fussy eater, this conversation is how the name came to be-
“Achhi Priya nah, khana khale” she said trying her Nani tricks on me
”Main agar Achhi Priya, toh aap Achhi Amma”.
Eventually it became Achamma. Everyone and anyone who knows her now, she is Achamma. Her Rajma Chawal warmed up my belly and heart on most days, my last meal before I left for the hospital to deliver my daughter. She said, “What do you want to eat? Whatever you feel like you should eat before the delivery, the child will be content and that’s when you will go into labour. They say a pregnant woman should eat all that she yearns for before she gives birth. Post that it’s another life, a new life for you”. Of course, old wives tales but who was I to refuse her offer?
Inika had her first period two months ago. I wasn’t around but she had Achamma. My most secure piece of my childhood with my daughter as she took her first step towards biological adulthood.
We have moved 13 houses in our 15 years of marriage. Some, we stayed for as little as 2 months. Often, I go back to my first home after my marriage. First place that I called truly my own. My thoughts and my sense of self did not feel the need to be censored there. The pride I took in decorating the house, the meals I learnt to cook and a place where the foundation of equal responsibility was firmly established. An ex colleague visited my home about a year ago. On our way to work he said ,”It’s so seamless in your house. How come Sunil does everything at home? No distinction whatsoever” I said, “ I don’t know but I think we worked hard at it in our first year”. Our mothering and fathering lines are definitely blurred.
A well meaning neighbour once told me ,”Aap toh dikhte hi nahi, Bhaiyya ghar achhe se sambhalte hain aapke bina”.
“ Haan mujhese kaafi behtar. Par main bhi bhaiyya bina kaafi cheezein achhe se kar leti hoon” I smiled and walked away.
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Livin' life in peace
John Lennon was an idealist, a dreamer or just naive?
Refugees, homeless, illegal migrant, domicile - politically inspired and conspired synonyms for Home.
This crisis of displacement that began in the 1960s has only seen an uptick in the last decade. From Rohingya, Bangladesh to Syria to South Sudan to Ukraine the world has seen forced displacement by power hungry institutions using and abusing caste, religion, political affiliation and views, as justification to inflict unspeakable crimes against large majorities of world population.
What are these camps like, their homes?
What keeps these people going?
What stories will they tell their next generation?
Will they survive to tell these stories?
How do you live when some of the most fundamental needs of safety, security, hunger are challenged every day?
A world unimaginable to me yet can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for what I call Home.
There are stories of resilience and courage that we often hear of. But I wonder how many stories of despair one has to silence to celebrate that one story of triumph.
Then we have some really hilarious jokers in our country who love pissing on state borders to mark territories. Imagine this line of ageing, jobless politicians all on state lines urinating publicly to say- THIS IS MY LAND
Domicile certificate- lived in Karnataka for 12 years in a row
Studied Kannada till 12th Grade
If not, then give a Karnataka proficiency test while applying to a job
Can we make more ridiculous rules? I’m sure we can, if we try a little bit harder.
Where and what is home? Especially when you look at it from this complex political web, forcing us to feel UNBELONG.
The 400 word version of this was written as a part of my
writing circle :) Prompt- “When did you last go home?”