Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Home Sweet Home.

When does a house become a home? Do we work hard all our lives to build houses or make homes? Living in a country where our primary goal is to save for a secure future (funny, how confidently we disregard the one truth of life--its end) so that one day we can settle in a place of our choice without worrying too much about bills etc., forces me to accost this question often. Too many options pop up as prospective places to settle down when we retire in a couple of decades. The choices are too many- it's not fair!

My grandparents didn't have to make that choice- history did it for them. All they had to do was leave their land of ancestors, their houses, their businesses, their farms and friends and even some members of their families behind in 1947. They were forced to move to a new country. They travelled with their memories and a determination to start afresh. Their Punjabi spirit and gumption translated the burden of this obligatory choice into an opportunity. They made India their home and embraced it unquestionably-- visiting their old homes (now in Pakistan) in stories laid open in front of their grandchildren huddled around a kangri; its embers igniting and fading like their memories, on cold winter evenings in Dehradun.

My parents' generation had it really easy. They were either born in free India or brought to it as babies or toddlers. They grew up there, found jobs, got married, raised children, built houses and turned them into homes. The question, 'where shall we live when we retire?' never surfaced. There was no need for it. You live with your family around you and you die the same way, right?

Then came my generation of yuppies working for MNCs. With our fancy trips abroad, paid by the companies we worked for, we started looking at the World as our home. With the right qualifications and pay packets, we were able to buy houses in any developed nation of our choice. We travelled back to India once a year to have chaat and gol gappe and reminisce about college days. Our children's delicate tummies faced defeat at the hands of Delhi belly, so we cut down our annual trips to once in two years-- choosing instead to explore the rest of the (developed) world. Global Economic Migrants (GEMs) that we are --we live where we find the best pay cheque to secure a future (we may or may not see).

We then spend a fair amount of this money to escape to a tropical paradise or go back home for gol gappe. We come back refreshed and pleased with ourselves. We share stories of how filthy Indian roads are and how delicious the chaat was at that roadside thela. Sounds confused, does it? That we are. Don't blame us. It's all these ruddy choices we've been inundated with:

Where to send our children to school, university, summer camp?
Where to eat lunch/dinner/brunch?
Where to shop for clothes/bags/more clothes/ more bags/ even more clothes....?
Where to go for a short break/a medium break/ a long break?
Where to buy to let?
Where to buy to live?
Where to buy to retire- seaside or mountain top?
What to wear?
What not to eat?

Choices. Ruddy Choices.

We meet other yuppies and share our travel stories. Somehow we end up discussing how awful our choices are-- forced to live this life of comfort in a place we can't call home.

Yes, our parents had it easy...they knew their homes were in the houses they had built in the country their parents had fought to set free.

We've  lived so long in foreign lands that we've forgotten our way home. Only kasore ki chai and spicy gol gappe ka paani remind us of our homeland.

Homeland...hometown...childhood home? Is it real? We go back and realise that it exists for the first couple of hours after we arrive and forever after we come back --in the romantic recesses of our brains- where the idea of what it was like when we were little lives and breeds. This part of our brain connects to our heart strings and makes us pine for a time which only exists in nostalgia. Yuppies who stayed on in India are as helpless as we are when it comes to locating this hometown of our memories. India has changed. It is changing  and poor sods like us sit with our glasses of wine or single malt in a beautifully done up sitting room and reminisce.

Out of the blue, an email from a dear friend in London opens with, " Merry Christmas darling. When are you coming home? I miss you. You've been gone long enough."

We've harvested a rich crop of dear, darling friends over these twenty vagabond years in many cities and countries.  I miss them, too.

Home is where the heart is, they say-- but the problem is this restless heart-- it always notices the grass is just a tad greener on the other side.

Sometimes, I wish I were a snail or a tortoise- at home, no matter where I go. But, most times, I get excited about pieces of art or pottery or a set of fluffy towels and I want to get them to take them home. Yes, that tortoise notion isn't going to work in this lifetime, but I do feel it sometimes-- especially when the cleaning chores pile up!

As a kid, home was the aroma of my mother's cooking. When I went to University, home was my grandfather's kiss on my head and his sideways hug when I visited him. These days, home is the nook of my husband's shoulder where I rest my head at the end of a day. Yes, that's how small and big a home is for me. That's all.

Houses, on the other hand, are hard work. They have to be cleaned and kept in order.

The tug-o-war between my Martha Stewart brain and Homer Simpson brain goes on forever--most days, Homer wins. Unless, of course, friends are coming over; then it's Martha Stewart on steroids!

Choices can be corrupting. They suck you into a vortex of consumerism and keeping-up -with -the Jonses. Luckily, we don't know any Jonses. So we keep up with ourselves.  And every time I feel trapped in this gilded cage, I remind myself of the day when I was not yet twenty and I got caught travelling without a ticket in a DTC bus because the choice I had that day was between buying a bus ticket or a hot cup of tea. I chose chai on that cold, foggy, January Delhi morning. The tut-tutting of the ticket checker's head wrapped in a thick woollen scarf, when he said, "shakal se to achhe ghar ki lagtee ho' (you look like you come from a decent family) snaps me back into reality.

The reality of plenty. GRATITUDE for the food on my table, a house to make my home in, a family to turn to and friends to talk to surges forth. We can't always choose freely; some choices may be unpleasant but essential. So, while I embark upon this free period of my life after quitting my job, I look to my husband with admiration and respect for choosing to support us- his wife and his children. Who doesn't want a life of gardening and reading? Luckily for me, I made my home with someone who lives in the real world-- he works hard without ever complaining and lets me live my days dreaming with my eyes open.


In September 2015, we stayed at Auli base camp for a night. Next to this camp was the most stunning house I've seen in a while. I don't know what this style of architecture is called, so if you do, please tell me.

I wish I had enough time to knock on their door and seek permission to admire the interiors as well. I didn't, so I had to make do with exploring the grounds around the house.

Feast your eyes on the treasures I discovered...

The view from the verandah.

The verandah--beside the beautiful house.

The beautiful house

and its doorway....chaukhat/ dehleej

When nature inspires man--
notice the colour combination in the following shots...

The choice is ours-
to be grateful, 
to smile,
to live
let live.

p.s. This is a kangri- this photo is from google images.

My grandfather used to hold this close to him, wrap us all in his big scratchy blanket, while we sat on his lap or next to him--looking up at his pink cheeks, floating like little soft islands in a sea of deep wrinkles. Wrinkles- he had earned working in his farm and his beloved garden for hours, tending his roses and radishes.
I miss those warm chilly nights.

Choose wisely and laugh foolishly:)

Have a peaceful and healthy 2016. Hope to see you soon. xx


  1. Hi readers.There seems to be a problem with comments (AGAIN). I'm sorry for the lost words as I know how frustrating it can be to type out your feelings and then watch them vanish into nothingness after clicking 'publish'. I hope it will get resolved. Your comments make blogging fun for me- believe me. Please email me on if you are unable to see your comments here. Thank you.

  2. hi arti! such a beautiful post!! the doorway is stunning, and the people, wow... i truly hope to visit this part of the world one day!! xo

    1. Thanks for stopping by Ananda. I truly hope you can visit -- you'll love it. xx

  3. Hi Arti,

    All my superlative adjectives have been exhausted but you continue to write such marvelously close to heart blogs.Love this one too.Now I know why Ashish thinks this is the best ever blog....but he should have known this all along.

    The colourful house is amazing and by the way this kind of architecture is called "koti Banal".
    Loved the smiling people you photographed.
    Thanks for this lovely piece of art and sharing it with me.

    love n hugs coming your way.


    1. Oh! My! Vini! SOOOOO nice to see you here. Thank you:) xx

  4. Hi Arti. I popped over to check on you after a long break. Funny how you always seem to write what I am feeling in my own heart. With our teenagers on the cusp of adulthood, we are having many of the same thoughts that you write about. Where will we go? What will we do? We want to enjoy every bit of the lives we have been given, and sometimes chores, and repairs feel like they shouldn't be a part of that life... but then again, sometimes we plan so much for the future that we forget to live in the present.

    Beautiful post, my friend. And of course your photos make me smile inside and out!

    1. Thank you for visiting Tara:) And I needed to read your words today. "sometimes we plan so much for the future we forget to live in the present." Hugs. xx

  5. Hi Arti, visiting your blog after a long time . But, as I always say, I love going through your lovely posts. They touch my heart and make me smile. Loved the bit about the tug-o-war between Martha Stewart and Homer Simpson . Sigh !! Story of my life :D
    Lovely pics too. The house is truly stunning and the flowers are gorgeous .Lovely post, my darling friend . Love you :)

    1. So happy to see you here Reshma. It's always a pleasure to find friends here. BTW, I don't believe you could ever be anything but Martha S...your house pics and you always look magazine shot ready. Love you too. xx

  6. Hey Arti,
    Been meaning to re write my comments for some time. Actually I have forgotten my original thoughts and hope that these will get published this time.
    This post resonated on many levels......
    Firstly home has to be where the heart is and I say this after having lived in nearly twenty houses that became homes, throughout my life ,thanks to my father's transferrable Govt job and later my husband's not-so-trasferrable one. Some houses were simple and very basic, while others were spacious and grand; some were apartments, while others were bigger houses with yards and gardens, and they all became homes where my life happened….
    Secondly, after our recent tenure in Doha I so know the feeling of being “ forced to live in a life of comfort in a place we cant call home…”
    Thirdly, the question of planning for “prospective places to settle down in” has been on our minds too, and our ideal place is also trapped in the “recesses of our brain” and everything is changing and evolving…. so hometowns dont seem to be same anymore, sigh!
    That tortoise idea is a good one , and the Martha Stewart vs Homer Simpson tug of war is one that we all have been through too.

    The Auli photos are fab! What a beautiful place! Hope to make my way there someday, maybe once you have built your house in Dehradun?
    Thanks for taking us on this virtual tour, the flowers, the scenery, that ‘koti banal’ (thanks Vini) style house just took my breath away…..
    Keep em posts coming girl!

    1. After reading your comment, I realised that even though we met a handful of times before you left Doha, I miss you. Thank you for re-doing the comment. Auli is not tricky to get to- just hire a comfortable car and an experienced driver. I was told that the owner of this house teaches Chinese at the Indian Army base nearby. Need to read your writing now Ketaki:)

  7. Home? My grandmother always said it was where your heart was, and that was with your family. She was put on a boat from Ireland at 14, to go into "service" for a family in the Bayswater area of London. She was the youngest of the daughters, so never got taught to cook. Her job was to clear out yesterday's embers and get a fresh fire going, she said it was a filthy job and she hated it especially in the winter when it was bitterly cold and the rest of the family lay in their beds! she remembered being on the boat and looking forward to not having to light the fire anymore. However can you guess what her first chore was at her new "home"? Yep!
    She really disliked people referring to Ireland as "home" as in "are you going home anytime soon?, hows the family back home?"
    "I've been here 50 year (The Irish often say the singular for plurals) - why would there by my home? Tberes no one there, just graves"

    Great post Arti x

    1. Oh! Wow! Tammy...I have goosebumps. Thank you for sharing your grandmother's story. I'm always blown away by how different 'home' can be for different people and yet it all boils down to 'where the heart is.'
      Thank you for stopping by. I've been a bit self-absorbed lately with my blog! Hope to visit yours soon.


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