A place that was called home.


I have such little time left in the day to do anything. Even logging in to read other posts has become impossible. The new project at the new client office has been sucking up all my time and energy. I do not want to get started about my commute woes! It’s sad that Bangalore has sorta become synonymous with traffic.

When someone recently asked me, why me and my husband don’t move closer to our workplace, and why we both choose to travel the 30+ km in the incomprehensible traffic, I couldn’t find words to explain what I felt. If you are a true blue Bangalorean, like I’ve been (and I can see that devotion dwindling now, given how the city has changed), and you’ve seen Bengaluru in its true form, old style, I’m sure you’d be hurt too, to see the drastic change it has gone through.

You’d agree that the concrete IT jungles and the areas around it that went from being outskirt villages to apartment hubs are not what form Bangalore. You like me, would be one among those people preferring to get tired, by commuting daily, and get to spend some time in the core of the residential green city. Even if that’s only in the weekends and even if the greenery is fast disappearing.

If I am so attached to the city in which I lived, you can imagine how I would feel about the house in which I grew up. The house, where I roamed about endlessly, when I studied for exams, the room I locked myself in when I was angry and cried when I was sad. That granite slab, which functioned as a bench outside the house, on which I sat – sometimes drinking tea, sometimes staring into nothingness, sometimes watching kids play outside, sometimes on the phone and sometimes simply chatting with mom.

Yesterday, we all went and put down our signatures, as the legal heirs, for the sale of that house, which though was owned by my grandfather, was always called as “our home” by us. I lived there for nearly 23 years. All of us cousins, our uncles, aunts, everyone lived there at some point of time. There are so many memories and life events associated with that house. From getting a cable connection for the first time, to the first landline phone, the first job, my marriage, even Dad’s death, the house had been a witness to everything.

But now, it’s going to belong to someone else. Strangers will live there, redo the house or maybe even tear it down. A brand new building may come up in its place, leaving no sign that our house stood there, just like so many of the neighboring buildings. If I had the kinda money it takes to retain that house, I would have bought it myself. But that’s just the ifs and buts…

It feels sad to know that my son will never run about in the house where I ran about. In fact he won’t even remotely identify with that place. Yesterday was an extremely sad day. But when it’s a choice between a bunch of memories and conflicts between brothers, the conflict wins. 😦 Everyone just wants the ordeal to end and they relent. Whether it puts an end to the ordeal, only time will tell.

Meanwhile, let me sit and stare at the photograph and go over the thousands of memories made in that house.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. Anu says:

    “Change is the spice of life!”
    We cannot cling onto the past and hope for things to not change – this is true for both the city and our house in this case 😔
    Life must go on, we have the happy memories and the photos to remember and savour. We can tell our kids these and they will make memories of their own!

  2. Deboshree says:

    I can relate with your sorrow, Arch. Who says we don’t get attached to places? Sometimes, I feel, places – the smell of them, the memories we have created in them – can arouse stronger emotions in our hearts than anything else. Photographs are good like that. 🙂

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