Casa

Today, I counted a blessing. For having a home. And then I felt even more blessed. For having three.

My home in Toronto. The first house that me and my husband bought together. The home where the three of us, Rajesh, Rohan and me moved into, last year. The home that Gia was born into, to complete us.

23 Carlton Street. Downtown Toronto. 3 and half bedrooms. Two washrooms. Open kitchen. Hardwood floors. Steel appliances. Washer Dryer.

Bright cushion covers. FabIndia. Yamini. Oranges. Pinks. Lime greens. Blues. Cotton . Silk. Changed every Saturday. To set a mood for the week.

White curtains in the living room. To open up the space. Beige, with whiteouts, in the bedroom, to darken it, for afternoon siestas. Bright colored ones in Gia's room. To liven it up.

Table mats. Chatai. Colored jute.

FabIndia bedspreads. Green to calm. Orange to awaken. Blue, for serenity.

A little temple. Sai Baba. Guru Nanak. Prayer beads.

Buddhas. 4 Buddhas and counting.

Incense. Sometimes, Nagchampa. Sometimes, Lavender or Opium. Aroma oils. Always Satsuma.

Plants. Everywhere. Living room, bedroom, washroom. Fresh flowers, now and then. Tiger lilies.

Books. Lots of books. Tarun Tejpal. Manju Mathur. Arundhati Roy. Paulo Coehlo. Marquez. Robert Munch. Dr. Suess. Sandra Boynton. Fiction. Non fiction. Stories. Philosophy. Poetry.

Art on the walls. A large Indian painting. My first art buy at an art gallery. From Dhoomimal's in Connaught Place. Art from Dilli Hart. Series of three. Tribal. A few Ikea prints. Contemporary. Kamal's painting. A recent addition. Sunils. To come.

Photographs. Lots of photographs. In magnetic frames on the fridge. Kids. Family. Friends. Memories. Moods. Emotions.

Lots of kids stuff. That gets tidied up every night. Teddy bears. Super heroes. Puppets. Choo Choo trains. Swords. Transformers. Ben Tens. Rattles. Lego. Puzzles. Bouncers. High chair.

Atta, dal, spices, pastas. Pressure cookers, pots and pans. Coffee maker, Juicer, blender, mixie. Bounty, toilet rolls, cleaners, linen spray, laundry detergents.

And music. Always, music.

It all comes together to make this home.

Then there is my parents house. Sector 37. House # 142. Noida. The first house that my mom and dad bought together. Finally , home. Not like the army houses that needed to be moved out of every three years.

The house my parents renovated last year. Their big creative project. They put their heart and soul into it. They shaped every dream they had. A kitchen like this, a living room like that. Bay windows. Bigger bathrooms. Bigger bedrooms. A veranda. Acess to the terrace, so the grandchildren can play.

Dad's den with his TV to watch National Geographic and CNN. With all his books and a proud display of his army mementos. Mom's room with her TV to watch Sony and Star Plus. With her sewing machine and ironing board.

The house that houses mom's crystal. Antiques. Hand crafted Kashmiri furntire. Mom's china cabinet. Dad's bar. With liqour bought from the army canteen.

The house that houses their memories. Of their children having gone to college. Done their MBA. Got married. Gone abroad. Had children. A house full of memories. Of a life lived. Bustling in the morning. Quieter in the evenings.

The house where now their children come home to. And their grandchildren .

The house that I moved out of to find my own. The house that I now return to, every now and then.

And as soon as I get to that house, after a very long flight from Toronto to Delhi, I know I am home. My room on the second floor. My closet. My dressing table. My favorite place, the garden. An oasis in the city. Lots of plants. Lots of trees. The magnificient palm. The little bonsais. The small tree in which the birds nested last summer. The waterfalll my dad built. The fish he added to it.

I am home to conversations with Dad. To mom's cooking. To Dad's breakfasts. To endless cups of chai . To random trips on the rickshaw to Atta market. To the joy I see in their eyes as they interact with Rohan and Gia. I am home.

And then there is the third. In Bangalore. Alpine Court. Koramangala. My best friend's home. Roohi, Sunil and Amay's home. Where I always go. No matter how tired I am of having made the long flight from Toronto to Delhi. No matter how fearful I am to undertake a trip, yet again, with the kids in tow. I go. And I'm glad I do.

Because as soon as I enter the house, I feel the energy. The creative energy. The surge. And I feel the the love. The warmth. And the joy that I am here. I feel the welcome. Real, genuine welcome. And I feel the comfort. Of being there.

I see the colors. Oh, the colors. Oranges, lime greens, blues, magaentas. All thrown in together. Without a thought to coordination. Effortlessly. By the undisputed queen of color.

The lights. the colorful twinkling lights. That magically lit up my 6 month old daughter's eyes everytime she looked at them.

Sunil's fish.

Art. Kamal's. Sunil's. Amay's.

The Fab India furniture. Tasteful as hell. The books. The Buddhas. The photographs.
The dining table, that draws people to it. That people sit around and eat. Have endless cups of chai. And endless glasses of beer. The table that makes people talk. That conversations happen around.

The kitchen. The functional kitchen. The kitchen that never runs short of food. Ever. The kitchen with the little temple. The kitchen where Roohi and me have rolled out a chatai and had the most amazing conversations. Bared our souls. Poured our hearts out. Spoken secrets. Discussed life, film, books, people, family. Laughed. Really laughed. And in doing so, created the most amazing memories. Of friendship. Of sisterhood. Of being best friends.

And the music. Always, music.

The little balcony. With the plants in their pots that the monkeys sometimes break sometimes. The balcony where I sat everyday with Gia and soaked in the Bangalore sun.

And sitting there, I know. Yet again. That I am home.