The Art Of Letting Go

About two years and four months into a new city, I have had a home in every person I have met.

I presently live in a place that overlooks a local rail station, and I have a huge terrace that should be able to store so much rain water, which if purified can help you, me and so many more us-es moisten our throats for over, perhaps nine months?

The other day I was counting my blessings and wondering how lucky I must be, to be able to live in a big house with that terrace! Of course when it is hot, you loathe the terrace and the house on a fourth floor. But then there is the quaint little kitchen, and the cozy study, and a well planned work room with a mezzanine floor attached to it. The kitchen might get a tad suffocating when you wake up to a breakfast prep morning, and the bathroom tiles may never ever be perfectly squeaky because your feet are always dirty in a house that big, where you are essentially always running around on errands. But, the house would look pretty to you, her, and them; and that is what I’d like. The cigarette dust eating air conditioner would never be visible to you as it really were, and I don’t care about it much since it looks dapper from the outside. I love the house, I must be special.

About two years and four months into a new city, I have had a home in every person I have met. I’d clean the home, sit and eat quietly inside it. I’d sleep tight and wrap around a warm blanket on rainy days, I’d have bad days too, when I’d not get out of my home and cry and cry if my home would catch a damp or a rodent attack since that’d require me to shift homes. But, I wouldn’t move. I’d cling to my home, until of course, the land lady/lord would take me by my hair, spit at me and slap me and ask me to never return. That is when another home would want me to stay in it and that is how I have always moved.

The house that I live in presently is owned by another nice little person. Of course you know, he is my home. The one where I live alone. You’d never see me miss a chance on going back home to that lovely AC or the newly made bed (that may sometimes give you bad dreams and a sore back, but then it accommodates me alright) and resting on that damp cement slab in the terrace. This new home looks very extravagant and I dare say, the beginnings of my stay were warmer. Back then, it reciprocated well and we were very lovely together. These days, a terrible monsoon darkens the innards of the house very early in the day. I have been trying to keep it well lit for so long, and it is sometimes tiring to move homes, so I feel like I could use some patch work and cello tape my little home to a clandestine hope in me. This little nasty home made me fall for it and how! I have no birds but crows visiting me every morning and I feel happy, for they are my true friends in this lonely little lovely home. I wonder what’d happen to my little crows if I weren’t waking up every morning to feed them little undigested pieces of my mustard dreams? Alas, there is this monsoon as I said earlier, and the rain doesn’t allow my crows to take flight, and the food turns mouldy and dull.

I get this feeling now, that I must perhaps move, because the crows are starving, and the rooms are too cold to eat in. My clothes stink of the almirah cabinets and the terrace does not respond to my repeated adlibbing. The other day, I wanted to cook some rice for myself, since rice is good for health, but I realized that my fridge consumed all of my newly bought vegetables; all by itself!? I wish it were a little more sensitive to my hard day’s schedule. Maybe one tomato and a chilly would’ve been enough for that curry you know. But then, the fridge must have been really very hungry. Today morning, I had this final situation where neither the terrace nor the little cabinet compromised. I got late for work, and the kitchen huffed over how hard I make it run. I think, they’d like me to leave. They function very well on their own now, and a happy girl I am thinking of that. So I say bye-bye.

About the guest author


Thinks pound size, delivers nuggets. Looketh like a Junkie, but loves onions. Self exiled workaholic, doesn't mind calling a 'kulfi', a 'kulfi'.