• Devshree Raut

The home inside me…

The memories of my shifting have been quite cherishable for me. As I was a kid, my parents decided to move from a small town in Madhya Pradesh to a huge city in Pune. I remember imagining how big the city will be and all the amazing things I would be able to do there. The best part about being a child is that we know only to feel one emotion at a time. I was excited about moving but at the same time, my little mind couldn't calculate the pain of leaving the house in which I had spent my early years of childhood. I used to enjoy the farewell dinners we used to get. Also, the packing sessions where I found my long lost toys under the bed were my favorite part. Soon the day came when my mother decided to give away my old toys and clothes. That made me really sad. My definition of property were my toys, my comic books. That's all I thought I needed to survive in the new city. At this point, the sadness of moving started to hit me. Soon came the day of moving, I remember being happy about getting to eat dosas that my neighbor aunty made for me and getting to sleep on her couch. My little brain forgot about the fact that maybe this is the last time I am getting to see her. Again the real sadness came in when I saw my house all empty. That's when I started to cry miserably. The empty walls only which i drew beautiful drawings, the windows through which i waited for dad to come home, and the kitchen in which i spent hours looking at my mom cooking for me.I decided to protest against this shifting plan and i must say i protested hard but then my brother decided to distract me when he showed me how my voice is echoed in the empty house. He told me the house is repeating what I say as I am leaving it. My little brain once again got distracted. Soon we moved here and I got engaged in the newness of this new house and forgot about my old house. As I grew up I realized that I remember each and every detail about the house and I cherish all the moments I lived there. I realized that I moved out of the house but the house just stayed in me. On some days when I wonder about building my own house, all I can imagine is the house of my childhood which was small but managed to provide me warmth as a baby. Maybe the house of our dreams is just made out of a collection of feelings and memories and not of bricks. Maybe it's about the warmth of togetherness and the innocence of hiding from misery under the bed. Maybe we never really move out, we just shift to make new memories.

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