Clothes

My memory of buying clothes goes back to the vendor opposite my house in Sampangiram Nagar. The guy who owned the shop was Shanthilal. It was a small shop, with a counter in the front. He sat behind the counter, chewing his pan or a red stained mouth, from a pan chewed earlier. Everyday morning like an alarm, he opened the shop at the same time. He had hired a lady to sweep the front of the shop and draw a small rangoli. This lady was old and lived on the money she earned by doing menial jobs for others. She did this for some adjoining shops as well. She came home occasionally and my mother always fed her.
So Shanthilal opened the shop and sat there waiting for customers. Watching the inflow of customers to his shop and the other shops was an instant timepass for me. I just stood outside the balcony and watched the people who walked into his shop. Evenings were rush hours. He ended up buying the building with two floors above and three adjoining shops, which was a sign that his business was flourishing. The first floor was his residence and he rented out the second floor. When he went for lunch in the afternoon, his wife or son, Mahaveer sat at the counter.
My mother and I went to his shop once in a while to pick up some socks for my father, handkerchief, towels, or innerwear. The commodities in his shop were expensive, according to my parents, so unless it was really essential, we didn't go in there. When we didn't have the money to pay, he opened his big red book of accounts. There was a page for my father, and if we didn't have money, he would add to the account. Usually we went with hundred rupees when our need was for two hundred.
Beyond his counter there was another room full of shirting and trouser material stacked against the walls. There was a hard mattress on the floor for customers to sit and select the fabric. It was a small room, maybe 8 ft by 8 ft. When he made enough money, he expanded his shop to the next room and started selling salwar kameez, sarees, dress material. Whenever we went in, he would ask my mother, 'Thangam, saree dikhaoo, Indu ke liye salwar kameez, lelo..' 'Thangam, shall I show you some sarees, salwar kameez for Indu'. He was a true businessman.
My mother's sarees were often bought by my father on some official trips he went to, Calcutta or Orissa. Occasionally they were from our family friends who owned a silk loom. But now, when I think of it, maybe she wanted to buy a few sarees from Shanthilal's shop. I don't know.
My father bought shirt material, maybe once in a decade from Shanthilal and always gave it to one tailor, all his life. He believed until recently, that those were the only group of tailors who could stitch his shirt and pant the way he liked them. He always had a maximum of three sets of shirts and pants.
My clothes and my brother's came from Chellaram's, once a year. I think it was for my 10th birthday, that Kids Kemp opened on MG Road. With all the advertisement for Kids Kemp, I forced my parents to go there for my birthday dress. I don't know how heavy it must have been on them, but I remember feeling like a princess, in the red frock with white net all around. 
Buying the birthday dress was a family ritual and something I looked forward to. Before my birthday or my brother's we took an auto to Chellaram's. After a lot of searching, I almost always settled on a yellow dress. First they came as frocks, then skirts and blouses, and finally when I was in pre-degree, jeans and blouse.
As I entered college, the salwar kameez came from the inner streets of Commercial Street. They were always too big for me, blame it on my miniature form. They never made clothes in petites those days, it was all free size, atleast the ones you got from the bylanes of Commercial Street. For t-shirts and pajamas to wear at home and hostel, we went to Burma Bazaar. Not inside the bazaar, but the vendors on the streets around Burma Bazaar.
As my income grew, I exercised more freedom in the clothes I bought and their price. About three years ago, I switched to Fab India, and that was a lot of freedom. The most fulfilling experience has been buying clothes for my parents. Its not the arrogance, but the fulfillment, that life has come to a full circle in a little way.
Today, I shop from JC Penney or Gap or one of those shops. I can go there anytime I want and buy what I need. But the happiness of that one birthday dress, simply cannot be recreated.

My friend

He came into our world, because my parents were fed up of my complaint that I had no one to play. And yes he did arrive, not to play with me, but fight, till we were spanked by Ma with the red spatula from the Sumeet Mixer at home. Atleast Ma distributed them equally. From that day every chocolate bought at home was cut in between, right in between. He was always there to fight, and what a pest he was. And I always had this wrong feeling that my parents favoured him. He entered Bishop Cottons Girls for a year, after some time at a matchbox building school called St Glorious School. I enjoyed walking up there with Ma to pick him up. Then he moved on to Bishop Cotton Boys! Every marks card drew comparison, good that I did well during those years and my handwriting was way better.

He always got all the toys he wanted.. Thats how I felt then. I too got my share of toys, which I realize now. He got a Pulsar and a Santro, and the school blazer, while I cribbed. I was the older one, but he was always an equal.

Being five years younger to me, I never thought of him as a friend, but a younger sibling, until he went on to his engineering years and later. He did grow up to be an equal, a friend.

When I had my son, I came to realize what my brother meant to me, rather what I felt for him. He was like my son, or maybe, brother, or maybe friend... For all the different roles he plays, I love him dearly!!

Anand, one of my treasures for life!!

Ma...

She woke up at probably 6.30am, I don't know. I have never been awake before she woke up. She always woke me up, guess that is the reason why, alarms are not my cup of tea. 'Indu..' she calls out, 'time to go to school'. By the time I am ready, the tumbler of horlicks and something to eat is ready. When lunch bell rings, the orange basket with the steel tiffin, plastic waterbottle, folded towel and stainless steel spoon are ready at the school gate. When I get back home after a long day (yes.. at school :)) she is ready with something for me to eat. It may be snacks, or lunch. She let me play for a while, with the neighbours kids, or do whatever I want. After that she called me back, strictly, to do homework. English, Hindi, Maths, Science, she taught them all. She built a foundation, so that in the higher classes, I could do my work on my own, with little help from her. She made me independent. When my results came, she cried with tears, and hugged me with a 'very good'. Her smiles had no boundaries. She taught me happiness. When I was heartbroken, she quietly understood. She let me cry my sadness out, instead of carrying it as a burden in my heart. When it was time to move on to yonder lands, she let me go, with no strings attached. She let me learn the ways of the world the hard way. She let me look for myself, meet people, understand them, and figure out my way through the woods. She gave me the freedom. When I asked for things that money could buy, she let me buy some and said 'no' to others. She taught the value for money. When things were not going right, she bowed down and said her prayers to keep her child safe. She taught me to go on, and be bold enough to face every obstacle in life. She gave me the courage. When I am miles away, I know she misses me. She misses the smiles on my face. She misses the fact that she is not part of my everydays.

My inner strength. Ma... 

Nostalgia

Nostalgia has got the better of me today. I sit here in this room, looking out through the white blinds. The sky is grey, the ground is getting its colour back, after the sun took the snow away. The big wide road in front of my house, occasionaly is graced by a car or two. The houses across the road, all wear a glum look. A playground on one end of this canvas, looks empty, waiting to feel the touch of a child. The Christmas trees standing in a row, wonder what they are waiting for. Not a sight of a single person. The silence deafens me. This is the United States and its seventeen years since.

That place was Sampangiram Nagar or S R Nagar to help write the address. A multistoreyed building stood at the intersection of fourth main road and fifth cross. From the veranda of the second floor, a girl in her eighth grade looked out. Sitting on a metal folding chair. The road was lined with houses, with no breathing space between them. A breathing space would serve as an open toilet. There are people everywhere. Outside the houses, in the veranda, on the road. There are cows, and there are dogs, no different than the people on the road. Amidst this maze of people, people driving bikes, cars, autos, lorries, manuever so easily and find their way, with one finger glued to the horn. It was the sound of the world, and never once, deafened me. There was a constant array of people in the Kumar's hotel opposite my house. The vegetable shop [grocery] next to Kumar's hotel, owned by a Malayali, always displayed fresh vegetables. Next to it was a medical shop [a pharmacy]. 


At the intersection of the sixth cross and fourth main road, on one side was a stationery shop. A Shetty owned the shop, known to be a miser. Every pencil, pen, eraser, notebook, crayons, graph sheets, I used in my learning years, came from his shop. On the other side was a Fancy store.. yeah! wondering what a fancy store sells - everything thats fancy! Bangles, glitter, bindi [sticker placed on forehead for ornamental purposes], eyeliner, kajal, and what not. There were hooks from the ceiling and all these things dangled from the hook, giving the store a fancy look! This was the mini fancy store. Anything that was not available in this store, could be found in a bigger fancy store, three blocks down the road. There were three doctor clinics on this fourth main road. In the twelfth cross stood a hospital - Sindhi Hospital. The place where I uttered my first cry. A couple of blocks away, there was a temple, a chat corner, and the post office with the big red post box. 


The entire length of this fourth main road, would not be more than a mile and we walked to each of these needs of life.

My family spent about thirty years, five years before my birth, in this one bed one bath apartment [as anyone who had a taste of the US would call it]. About, six hundred square feet of living area. The place we called home. The place I still attribute to the word 'home'.

Places have changed, people have changed, living area has grown by leaps and bounds, but I long for those days, where the mornings began with amma waking anand and me to get ready for school. While appa helped us get ready, she made horlicks in this big steel tumbler. There was breakfast too. The auto guy, came and honked downstairs at sharp 7.40 am. Amma announced 'auto fellow has come'. After traveling for eight years or so, I learnt his name was Raju, he was always referred to as Automan. An hour before lunchtime, the lunch arrived in a basket and was kept at the regular drop off place, courtesy the Automan. The basket had a small towel, a three tier steel lunchcase, and a waterbottle. We picked it up at lunchtime and ate under a tree or in the classroom. We got home by 3.30pm and amma was ready with snacks or a second round of lunch. Or another round of Horlicks. After that we played with our only neighbors who lived on the third floor of the building. The eldest, one year older to me was nicknamed Babloo, the middle, was a girl, one year younger to me, nicknamed Baby, the youngest, one year younger to my brother was nicknamed Bobby. These are the only friends I have played with during my school years. After that amma called out to us, to start homework. After homework, I'd help amma in the kitchen to make dinner. Dinner was always chapathi [Indian flat bread made of whole wheat], curry, cucumber and onions. Yumm. We watched TV later for sometime.

I miss -

1, my mother's horlicks everyday morning with the Times of India newspaper

2, fights with my brother, where finally amma called out 'aaaaanaaand, iiindddduuuuuuuu'.. and were feather touched with the Sumeet mixie spatula, until one day, my smart brother trashed it.

3, infinte sessions of amma trying to teach me how to calculate marked price.

4, power outage hours, where we sat on the veranda and appa played 'places' with us. The game was one person said the name of a place, and the next person said the name of another place whose first letter was the last letter of the previous place. Later we sometimes, searched these places on the atlas.

5, the second show movies that amma and I went to, buying tickets in black sometimes ;-)

6, how appa applied ointment on my knees and ankle when they hurt and I couldn't sleep in the night

7, the snack that appa made sometimes with poha and sometimes with fried rice.. yumm!!

8, my cleaning sessions of the house, after anand made a mess out of it..

9, the look on amma's face after I got back from an accident with my neighbors

10, the joy on my face when appa bought our first colour TV a fourteen inch nelco black diamond.

11, hugging amma and sleeping and her lullaby about omanakuttan govindan..

12, the photo sessions by appa, usually when we got a new dress. His umpteen corrections of pose, place your hand here, tilt your head this way, look here, look there.

13, shopping for a new dress before March 25th and October 1st.

14, samosas that appa brought on some evenings from Mangaram's on Commercial street, Masala dosa from Kamat, Kaju Barfi from Arya Bhavan.

15, decorating a room for your own birthday with friends, blowing the candle, cutting the cake. The maximum you got for a gift was a card. And that was so precious.

The list is endless, coz the memories are endless. A song from the movie 3 idiots plays in my mind -

Give me some sunshine, give me some rain

Give me another chance, I wanna grow up once again.

:)

Simplicity, where art thou?

I received a forward this morning, with the subject “Don’t forget these…”. When I opened the e-mail I saw images of familiar objects, rather, once familiar objects. The first impression one gets when viewing these images, is ‘simple’. The simplicity of these things made them famous. During those times, we lived in a less commercialized world and that made these things special.

A Hero pen was a very valuable gift. Learning to refill the ink in the pen was an art. Now, you will find thousands of pens, drilling the word ‘innovation’ into your brains. Pens, with three and four color inks, turn them, cap them, anti-gravity and what not. During school days, the only pen available was either an ink pen or a ball point pen. Ball point pen was always Reynolds; I haven’t found a single pen that writes as smoothly and is as easy to hold as the Reynolds. Wow!

The geometry box takes me back to those questions from Mom ‘How many geometry boxes do we have to buy, either a scale is lost, or compass, or divider or protractor.’ We maintained a ruler with so much care, that we used it, sometimes for years. Now, my Kindergarten son has bent his 12 inch ruler at a 45 degree angle, after three months of school. The longevity of things has also come down drastically. Or is it the attitude, “one goes, we can always get another one!”. We do repeat the old words ‘take good care of your things’, but I wonder, do they fall on deaf ears?
Nataraj pencils – alternating colours of Red and Black. The ad went ‘bonded lead waali Nataraj Pencil’, what does ‘bonded lead’ mean? I don’t know to this day J. The oldest memory I have of a tape-recorder is this big box, which played only mono and not stereo, I think. You pressed the Play and Record button together to record something. My dad recorded conversations and wails of my brother and me. To this recipe, add innovation, technology and fast forward a few years and Boom you have the camcorder. Something I use today to record conversations and wails of my kids. Technology the master of all inventions.

The first time I was bought a walkman was probably just before I started Engineering or during the two years of pre-degree course. At that time, it was the most hi-fi electronic device one could own. Way too far from the word ‘compact’; more than ten times the size of today’s compact mp3 players. Film cameras and film rolls. I needed one to capture all the moments at Manipal during Engineering. A relatively cheap, but good one; A photographer father, wouldn’t settle for a low quality camera.

One chose inland letters to postcards when the content was private. Because any person, and there was a 100% probability to that, would read your words on the postcard. Letters to cousins, friends, best friends, special friends. Using your best handwriting, starting the letter with Dear, My dear, Dearest, ending with With love, Lots of love, Lots and lots of love and so on. Sealing the inland letter and walking up to the post office, to drop it in the big red postbox, checking to make sure that it dropped in fine. And suddenly a flash of smile on your face, thinking of everything you have written and imagining the receiver’s reaction. E-mail, again another child whose umbilical cord is tied to technology and innovation, doesn’t provide one tenth of the pleasure of ‘letter days’.
The world has advanced, by leaps and bounds. My father owned a CRT TV fourteen inch, got it when I was in third grade. My son was born with a raving forty-two inch plasma TV in his house. His son will probably see a four dimensional TV at birth. Technology is good, assures us that somebody’s grey matter is functioning. Adds a lot of luxury and convenience, but I miss the simplicity of the things I used as a kid. There was only one Nataraj pencil, the choices were less, but you would be content that you have got the best product. Today’s world, the consumer is sinking under the array of choices and you never know which one is best. ‘Customer reviews’ are supposed to help. But who knows who the customers are and what their likes and dislikes are. How can you depend on something someone said, whom you don’t recognize beyond his ‘Username’. Technology and Innovation, leave me alone, coz my heart longs to go back to ‘simplicity’, where “everything” was valuable.

Barbie..

I feel more inclined towards the emotional side of me this morning. I try to think and relive the moments from yesterday that have brought me drove me to this side of my feelings. It began with my trip to ToysRUs yesterday afternoon. I was walking through the Dolls aisle to buy one for my niece. As soon as I spotted a Barbie doll, the decision was made. But there were so many Barbie dolls, which left me in my otherwise usual state of mind - confused! The bikini Barbie was too revealing for my six year old niece. The one with pink hair, might invite some wild ideas in her little head. Then there was one with some decent clothes, but hair was too short. The thrill of playing with a Barbie doll is changing her clothes and combing her hair. The Barbie with short hair, would kill the fun in half. Finally I decided on a singer Barbie, a microphone in one hand, a bag in the other and of course long hair and a comb. I also picked up two extra dresses for Barbie, priced at a few cents over two dollars. On my way back home, I traveled back eighteen years, when I was in the seventh grade. I narrated to myself, my rendevous with my first and only Barbie.
It was a weekend, and after persisting for long, my usually-not-so-social father took us to his friend's place. Uncle had one son and two daughters. While my parents chit chatted with uncle and aunty, my brother and I were left to play with the girls. The older girl asked her mother if she could play with her Barbie doll. The first time I heard the name. She brought out this most-beautiful-doll-I-have-ever-seen dressed in a plain white frock, with pink ribbons and white lace. She had the most beautiful hair tied up in another pice of pink ribbon. The doll had a coffee table set, with a pristine tea set and tiny cushions for the sofa and chairs. The sofa and chairs were in white and cushions were blue on one side and pink polka dots on the other. There was also a bathroom set, with a bathtub, hand shower, bubble bath and towel. Barbie also had a couple of dresses to change. My friend, she was my friend now, because she was sharing her Barbie with me, well, so my friend decided to give Barbie a bath. She slipped the Barbie in the bath tub, poured some water and whisked up some bubbles. Before Barbie could finish her bath and dry up, a call come from the adjacent room. It was my father, yeah you guessed it right, it was time to go home. With mixed emotions, and last look at Barbie in the bath tub, I bade goodbye to my friend.
I dont think I waited till I got home to raise my request for a Barbie. Way back then, a Barbie doll cost a hundred rupees. Way too much to spend on a doll. My mother could have bought a week's grocery with that much money. After consistent Pleases' and repeated asking, my parents agreed to buy me a Barbie. We walked up to the closest toy store on Double Road and went to the Dolls section. There she stood on the shelf, looking perfect in her white frock, with pink ribbons and white lace, waiting to be mine. She was called "My first Barbie". I had liked her so much, I didnt want to take a look at the other models. Now was the crucial point. I couldnt have the living room and the bath tub set. It would be too heavy on my parents pocket. I had to choose either of them. I chose the living room set and thought, may be they will buy me the bathroom set later. The change of clothes turned out to be very expensive, so I stitched up a few dresses for Barbie, with old clothes at home. Probably that's when I learnt to sew. As the rule in the book says, I grew up and forgot all about the bathroom set and eventually the Barbie doll.
When I got back home yesterday and showed the Barbie doll to my mother, it brought an instant smile on her face. I know, the image of my first Barbie in her white frock just flashed through her mind.
Later in the evening, I watched a romantic Bollywood movie. Such movies, push me easily to the emotional side. I get carried away with the subtle love potrayed and thoroughly enjoy the two hours of imagination that plays on the screen. Just when the actors were going to get married, my wailing son, forced me to shut off the idiot box and rock him to sleep. Alas, more emotions in store this evening.
This morning, my son came and stood beside me and said 'Mom, I love you'. I asked him 'do you need a hug?'. He nodded. I held him for a long time. He asked me to close my eyes, and kissed me on my forehead. Wrapping my arms around my kids and feeling the tightness of their hug, leaves my emotions skyrocketing.
Last but not the least, the hug and kiss I gave my husband's mother this morning, brought a lump to my throat. At seventy she is making a trip alone back to India today to be with her grand daughter. After a few weeks she is going to make another twnety hour journey on a flight to be with her grandsons. I hope I can stand up and walk, if I ever live to match her age.
All the emotions flooding my brain, forced me to make these keystrokes. Oops! A microsoft outlook reminder window just popped up. Time to put down my emotions cap and wear my other go-back-to-work one!!

Yaathra ...

Tomorrow, once again, I am going to pick up my bag and travel to distant lands. Except that this time, I am not boarding a luxury bus or a train from Indian Railways, but a Boeing 767 operated by Delta Airlines. In all my years and situations that demanded travel, there has been a common element to my destination - it would be 'home' or places or people whom I could relate to 'home'. The first trip I ever made alone was from my grandmother's house, a place called Perinthalmanna in central Kerala, to my parents’ house at Bangalore. My uncle helped me secure a seat in the KSRTC bus that started at 7.30am and would reach Bangalore at 4.30pm. I was put on a day bus, to keep me safe from the evils of the night. I must have been about eighteen then. I always kept my single piece of luggage at bay. A person from Nilambur kept me company during this journey. Around noon, I made way for the sumptuous lunch that my aunt had packed so carefully for me. At that time, I was not into the habit of reading books, apart from text books, so the beauty of nature outside and conversations with the gentleman kept me company. On reaching Bangalore bus station, the relief on my mother's face told me that she was happier than I was that I had reached safely.

The first trip made me, moreover so, my parents, confident, that indeed I could travel without assistance. This kick started the umpteen journeys that I undertook for various reasons to different destinations in the path of life. Every time I traveled, looking at the numerous co-passengers, this thought would cross my mind - where are all these people going? And to date, I don’t know the answer.

As I encumbered upon new journeys, which for some or the other reason, I had to do alone, I started liking the solitude while traveling alone. Sometimes traveling with friends seemed like a crowd. The excitement of boarding the locomotive by myself, finding the seat I reserved, reading my book on and off, looking outside the window and losing myself to my deepest thoughts; everything instilled a sense of adventure in me. The slight fear that I was alone, but the confidence that I am a woman and old enough to step into the world, encouraged me to make many more journeys, and each time to a farther place, touching upon places that I had located earlier only in the atlas.

Another significant 'yaathra' was the one I made with my father to Manipal. This was indeed a journey, to a new life, a new avenue. For the first time I was going to live away from my parents and from the four walls of my home, that had nurtured me in its warmth all through the years. This time I had two big VIP suitcases, felt more like I was going away forever. I first traveled to my grandmother's house to seek blessings from my elders. I was the first child in the family going into an Engineering college. The next day, I went to meet my father at Calicut. Being a photographer, he was there on an official visit. While he was waiting for me, he said he had watched two movies in the local theatre, the only movies I remember him watching at a theatre. I should say - I was impressed. We checked out from the hotel he stayed in, and boarded a luxury bus to - Manipal. It was around December and Manipal was arid and dry. The place was a surprise to both of us and the heat dampened our spirits. We walked from the college to the hostel a distance of two kilometers, this distance which I would tread upon a thousand times in the next four years and would end up weaving so many memories to cherish. He registered me at the Ladies Hostel, and said he was going to leave. I stood at the gate, and watched him walk down the road, till he got an auto-rickshaw to take him to the bus stand. I don't know how he got back home after that, which bus he took, I must have asked, but the memory of him slipping away from the horizon, leaving me alone in an unknown land to figure out everything by myself, has overshadowed the details he gave me about his return journey. After this I had many more travel experiences from and to Manipal, with friends and alone, every one of them etched and put away in my chest of memories.

The next milestone journey was taken on Indian Railways - Kanyakumari express from Bangalore to Trivandrum on Oct 13, 2000. The first job I won after a long battle of interviews brought me to this city. I stepped out of Trivandrum Central railway station, holding the same VIP suitcases that had once accompanied me to Manipal. I took a good look at the scene in front of me. A poster of a Malayalam movie, an array of auto-rickshaws, hustle and bustle of KSRTC buses at Thampanoor station and the big clock behind me standing high and telling me something. I am not sure what, or why I took a good look at the clock on the tower, but I did look at the clock, it must have been somewhere around 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Here I was again, in a new place, alone, trying to figure out everything, right from where I was to work to where I was to stay. This time there was no ladies hostel to register myself, but thanks to family friend whose parental house gave me shelter for a few days. That was the beginning of another journey, a journey that would shape my destiny.

This time I am picking up my luggage bag, which will be a single piece of luggage, to a place called Tucson in Arizona. The destination is my brother, who will graduate with Masters in Computer Science from University of Arizona. This travel is a dream comes true. When he walks on stage, I will see myself walking beside him, and being hooded as an MS Graduate; something I had wanted to achieve years ago, but as strange as life is, it took me to unknown destinations.

This excerpt from Nida Fazli's ghazal, aptly describes life's myriad ways -
"Apni marzi se kahaan apne safar ke hum hain,
Rukh hawaon ka jidhar ka hai, udhar ke hum hain."

The place I call Home ~

Home - Merriam Webster says, Home is one's place of residence, or a social unit formed by a family living together. It could be a place of origin, but what I like most is "a familiar or usual setting". Home is a place, where I can identify myself, every object reflects upon me, what I am. The linens, furniture, the food and lights. Some thinkers say by being materialistic, we are possessed by our possessions. For now, let us think we possess our possessions. Each piece of object tells me its own story about how we met and how we blended into each other's lives over the span of years. Recently, when I bought my new sofa, the old one looked at me with a sad face, 'are you giving me away?’ My cookware tells me the tale of the discount shop I hunted down looking up Google maps, to save a few bills. My clothes speak volumes of the affection people have for me, when they presented them to me. The tailor who, carefully mended them. The closet in my son's room, takes me 4 years back into my life, when he was kicking inside me and I was putting away the little mittens I bought for him. Like I said earlier, each object tells me a story and weaves a memory. All these objects kept in a particular fashion, that invites me every evening to this man-made structure of brick and walls, is home.

The second aspect is the people. My son, his smile, his authority over everything in the house and the warmth he has for me. Then my baby, his way of welcoming me home every evening when I get back from a long day at work. All the attempts to draw a circle with bright crayons on the walls. His small feet which cover the house from one end to the other, one step at a time. Every waking moment that we spend together. Their food spills, books, cartoons, clothes, tantrums and much much more. Ever joke that is shared, every meal that is cooked together; the movies watched together; the friends who visit often and integrate into the house as if they were family.
A place that brilliantly accommodates each day of life is home.

Last aspect is 'freedom'. There is a connecting factor between 'home' and 'freedom'. The freedom to do the things you like, the freedom to say the things you want, the freedom to live without fear. If you cannot do the things you want in your house, then it’s probably not your house and you are a mere visitor. Scream, yell, talk, sing, cry, laugh, laugh out loud are all different ways to emote. If you can emote without fear, you are at home. A place where you can be what you are, is home...