The Talking Abode

Thirty minutes until I reach home and my fellow passengers piercing down every inch of my expression and movement to know whether I was getting off from the seat on the next station or not was the only FUN moment I had today. Their urge to clear the way up to my seat, interlock my legs with their bags, put their arms straight open over my head and virtually blind my nostrils were some of their efforts that had added a tinge of chagrin to my mood. 

Not sarcastically, the only thing I wished was nearer and more under reach, was home! Home is such a happy place. Even if I am alone at home and there’s no object practically active to entertain me, somewhere deep down my heart, I hold an indescrivibile emotion to personify every object placed near me. I am honestly never alone at home. Zillions of memories and childhood object-friends( hurts to even call them object, now) welcomes me out of every dreary situation. Just so you know, I am not a maniac personifying non living things and talking to them when no one’s home nor is my house haunted, if you had any second thoughts, it’s just an attached string that never breaks off. I have cynical mood swings that drives me crazy at times and if, I am mistakenly placed at the right positions, those doesn’t seem right at all. Nothing except my home has an undying capability to alter my mood so fast and effectively. 

Home is the only altruist I have met after my mother. The pencil marks on the off white walls, clattered corners of creamy embroidered curtains, the mild cracks on the diamond shaped marble of the floor, an aged mirror, the photo frames in the lobby, and all those intricate washed off memories of my home delivers the power to my mind to blow off all the tenebrous thoughts putting me down.

  A House is your home when that house is adorned by the giggles and pitches of your loved ones rather than the brittle lights and soft cushions. The little pillow talk at night and those pathetic exam days during which the clock walked 60 minutes in 60 seconds with us drooling and staring at the walls vaguely gives me a savor of sweet-sour memories. When every corner of your house is drenched with bubbly memories of your crazy childhood and baffled teenage, it feels hard to not live my adulthood here! 

Hardly anyone of us do! People can travel overseas but not the spots where I first learned to walk, the walls on which I practised my uncanny art skills, the kitchen where I had my little mommy time, the balcony I looked at and cried when my heart broke for the first time, the dusty fan blades my father used to clean every Sunday, the terrace where I played with my monstrously energised friends and what not.



Slicing away past while sprinting towards future is something what we don’t aim for but simply, are made for. I wish things couldn’t speak or may be, I couldn’t hear,then would I had felt more disparate to a butcher. 

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2 thoughts on “The Talking Abode

  1. Such a beautiful description Yagya. We need a home in the psychological sense as much as we need one in the physical: to compensate for a vulnerability. We need a refuge to shore up our states of mind, because so much of the world is opposed to our allegiances. We need our rooms to align us to desirable versions of ourselves and to keep alive the important, evanescent sides of us.

    P.S- That drawing was a killer 😉

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