The Desais had lived twenty yards across Abhilash's home for three generations now. Set in the corner of a sprawling locality, their house was the crown jewel of Sector 7, Lajpat Nagar. The Desais lived in a beautiful house. It had a vintage iron gate, resting on two strong pillars like the head of a wrestler resting on two strong shoulders. Inside was a lush lawn, speckled with rose bushes on its sides. The walls gleamed white, with vines ruffling your head as you moved in. A couple of shining cars completed the driveway. The mantelpieces looked archaic yet they had a a sense of longing about them; the type you want to photograph and make into a postcard. Red tiles adorned its top, much like a cherry garnishing a pudding. Kissed by sunlight at different places during the day and caressed by a breeze blowing through, it was a house that made you want to stay, to live, to breath. A house that you wanted to call home.
The Desai family had a booming business. They were a renowned family in the locality and the city, and each its generation was born as if only to add some weight to its name. Something a kid growing up would not want his neighbors to be like. Something Abhilash's family quoted often to give examples. The Desais had two sons, both a bit older than him. Both on their way to top American universities while he was a kid; and in them when he was a bit older. It was like a catching up game he played with a shadow which was already ahead of him. Everywhere he went, the Desais' sons, yes the ones who lived in that
laal kothi were a mile ahead at best. It was as if everything associated with the
laal kothi was quintessentially top notch, a benchmark that preceded almost everything in Sector 7, Lajpat Nagar.
Soon enough, life changed gears; wafting and breezing at a pace Abhilash had never witnessed. School was followed by college and then a job away from home. While it was a pain to be away, he was secretly relieved to be away from it, away from a living embodiment of him not being the top dog, not being constantly reminded of him being only a so and so. He got more engrossed than before, finding and making a name of his own. Things started turning upside in some time. He was no longer overshadowed by a a name or a house that didn't belong to him. But it was always a part of it when he thought of home. The intensity did wane but it the house next door was and always going to be a part of his home.
*****
Abhilash had not even properly stepped on the platform. Porters and rickshaw owners surrounded him with their typical hollering. He thought of boarding one from the stand but the luggage in his hand was heavy. He was coming home after almost five months. Three heavy bags softened his initial urge to bargain. So he asked the driver nearest to him to pick up the bags carefully. He didn't want the phone he bought for his dad or the savories to be damaged. The driver asked where to and like an old scar that reemerges on a cold winter day, he told him to take the first turn right off the Link Road to Sector 7, Lajpat Nagar. Opposite the water tank, besides the
laal kothi.
Soon he was coasting, back into a plethora of memories. It was as if he wasn't just going back to his home, he was going back to everything that he had left behind when he moved out for his job some two years back. His old school, his old hangout places. The food joints. His college. The old fort gleaming in the morning sunlight. The football field. The roads. Every single time he came back, the awe of getting back was still the same.
A little bit of moisture here and there, maybe the wind or maybe the emotions. The driver knew where to go; a location not unknown and a landmark recognized by most. A turn later he was standing was standing opposite the water tank, besides a pile of rubble and dust, broken bricks and yes, his own home.
It was a mix of emotions: yes he was home, his Dad was waiting for him at the gate, but there was no sign of a splendid house that used to be right next to his. All left of it were a few decimated walls, some hinges yet to be extracted and a uniform clad eating his beetle leaf, standing guard. He did move in, he did touch his father's feet but there was a look of complete bewilderment that occupied his face. A sense of betrayal maybe, when your bête noire decides to shut the shop down without even having the courtesy of telling you that it is over.
Desperate for his answers, he looked at his father who sensing his quizzical looks first asked him to come inside. Soon he came to know the story: how the aging and ailing Desais had decided to sell off the business and their sons who were settled abroad took them along with. The house too was decided to be deposed. The house, the Desais house, the laal kothi was sold with a heavy heart. Four generations and a countless memories later, the laal kothi was finally disassociated from the Desais. The new owner decided to make amends and stamp his own mark; and tore down the house brick by brick. It was as if somebody had sucked the soul out of Sector 7, with everyone quietly lamenting the act in their dining rooms. Abhilash quietly came in his room and lied down. There was an uneasiness that gripped his heart. As if somebody had decided to go behind his back and had managed to undermine his own identity, and in a way his own home.
What he felt was exactly what makes a house a home. A house is made out of brick and mortar, has a defined boundary and has a location. A home is an emotion, it is a sense of belonging which encompasses imagination. It is recluse, it is hideout. It is a fortress. It is invincibility. It is stability. It is not just bricks and mortar; it is a living entity, which breathes and eats and sleeps. It has a soul, it has its parts. We are those parts, who complete it. And sometimes it is not just the people who live in it, it is even those who don't. It stands on a bigger piece of land than its papers say; it stands and commands and defines an entity bigger than its boundaries.
A home is not just a house, it is inheritance.
