We have had some wicked snowstorms here when vision is completely obliterated by swaths of simply white nothingness, where the wind has been so high as to overturn trees laden with snow, power cut off for days on end and temperatures so low as to freeze everything even house and car doors.

Imagine one such day that stretched into a hellish night way back in 1992 in the month of January. We were about to move into our brand new house. We had taken video shots of the structure when it was a mere skeleton following its later development into a two storied house with rooms that could be defined, at last. We were supposed to have moved in November, perfect time we thought, for then we could celebrate Christmas in our new abode. Of course, nothing goes as planned! Completion of building was delayed by a couple of months. So here we were moving from one place to another complete with two kids, all of our belongings including a number of precious plants that I had covered with newspaper. How was I to know that they would perish due to the move and to top it a blizzard wanted to make its presence felt exactly on that day. It was 2:00am, the final load arrived and we were now owners of a house.

The house was freezing cold for the furnace (as we found out later) takes a while to heat up a new structure. All we wanted to do was curl up and sleep but things had to be taken care of, beds made, kids put to bed, and then, only then, could we relax. It was at Easter, some months later, when the full family was over for dinner, the house started to feel like home. For it had by then started to absorb some of our own personalities into its psyche; yes I do think a house can absorb the faults and foibles of its owners, we rub off on each other. I remember one night leaving my bed and taking the stairs to the living room downstairs. It was past midnight. As I stood in the middle of the room I could almost feel a smile. Have you ever felt that way? You don’t see the smile, and it’s not coming from a human, but there’s something in the air that brings joy, a feeling of utter delight, a warm fuzzy feeling. You know then that you have received something precious. That’s how I felt. And at that precise moment, the house became a home. I chalked it up to the three people sleeping upstairs, and myself standing in the middle of the room with a goofy smile on my face, and I could almost hear our home, its heart beating in unison with ours.

I wonder how my great-grandmother felt when the decision to move from the ancestral home in Bengal to Hazaribagh in Bihar was made. Did she mind moving away from all things familiar? There was a new language to be learned, a new house to get accustomed to, new people to make friends with, and she had to leave the family temple of Radha-Krishna. This last must have been a real wrench. But she, brave woman that she was in the face of extreme odds, made a go for it. The family home in Bengal was preserved well although the succeeding generations did not live in it. It became the central piece for the well-known Bengali movie of the sixties Balika Bodhu. When my father was approached to name a price for the use of our property, he wanted nothing. Such was my father whose inner beauty defined our own home.

To me our family home in India will always be the one I grew up in, the one I drew inspiration from for a lot of my prose and poetry, the place where our hearts beat together – the warm, graceful, charming house in Hazaribagh.

 

My maternal grandfather’s house in Calcutta was another such a one. It had a grave and austere personality, somewhat like its master, but underneath this exterior lay fountains of kindness to which all who came through its venerable doors would swear. This house, mansion really, had absorbed so much from so many people some coming from great distances to rest their weary bodies and take nourishment before starting their journey again, some staying back for months at a time, that it became a testament to what life is all about. Every time I visited I could feel its heartbeats, hidden under the confines of a regal exterior.

Sometimes I ponder on the move my great-grandmother had to make. How would I have felt if it were me? When we moved from another neighbourhood to this house, I must acknowledge it was very difficult to leave our neighbours who had become family through those years when we first arrived in Canada. However, the excitement of owning something tangible far outweighed any doubts we may have had, initially.

A home starts with a foundation, walls of brick and mortar, a roof, doors and windows. Enter humans and within a few months the house has turned into a home, a sanctuary, a paradise, a bonding place. Like Simon and Garfunkel’s Homeward Bound “……..home……where the music’s playing……”

Keep Well…..Keep Smiling

Purabi Das

Purabi Das is an emerging writer and poet living in Pickering who finds inspiration for her stories and poems from life in general. To find out more visit Purabi on www.facebook.com/purabisinhadas