Where the Heart Was

I wrote this piece recently for a Writers group that I belong to. After some debate with myself, decided to share it with my world.

When I was just a little boy my parents moved into the apartment where I went on to spend seventeen years of my growing up life. With four older sisters, one of who got married when I was five, we were previously crammed into a modest two bedroom place of which I remember very little. My biggest memory of the older flat is running into our household help who was carrying a pot of hot water and having it spilled on me one morning. Something I would much rather forget.

The new apartment was large with four bedrooms, three baths, three balconies, a formal dining room and even a room for storing ’stuff’. The entire place had Italian tiles laid out on the floor which made it always look shiny and new. The bathrooms had granite walls and one of them was large enough to be a bedroom. Each time we had a new visitor, my dad would give them a tour of the 2400 square foot rental, with probably the same kind of pride as the owner.

It was always a very busy household with a revolving door of relatives who would come to stay for a while, whether it was for business or pleasure. Additionally there were friends of my sisters and mine that would drop by to hang out. I don’t think it was because of the apartment size - it was more because my mother was much more welcoming than the other mothers. The refrigerator was always packed with jugs full of summery drinks, refreshing lemonade, mango milk shake, bael sharbat etc., and varieties of sweets to satisfy a family of sugar lovers. A supply of snacks would keep coming from the kitchen, whenever there were people over, which was pretty much most of the time. A busy household it was for sure.

More than a hundred people were invited to my 10th birthday, which was celebrated right in that apartment. I had recently turned the corner from a long and serious illness and my parents were in the mood to party. The place was completely packed with people, an enormous cake had been ordered from my favorite bakery, Flury’s, and my bedspread was completely covered with presents. The excitement of opening those wrapped gifts, most of which were books, was the part I recollect most vividly. I also remember one of my uncles asking if it was my birthday or my wedding that was being celebrated!

In all the years that we lived there, my family saw both good times and rough times. Many years of affluence were followed by some years of struggle. We went from owning two cars, two drivers to using public transportation. Household help became minimal, the sister just older than me began working and I was tutoring school children while in college. I remember the stress that my parents were going through but I don’t remember us being unhappy. While eating at restaurants came to a stop, there was always food at the table. Looking back, I think it taught me many lessons that helped me get through life as a stronger person.

Over the course of my existence I’ve lived in eight different ‘homes’ but it’s the one I grew up in, the one in New Alipore, Calcutta, that must have made the biggest impact on me. I say ‘must have’ because that is the only place I dream about on a regular basis. Not the apartments I rented in Chicago, the house I owned in Naperville, Illinois, the pre-war apartment I loved in New York City or the penthouse that I’ve now rented out in Bangalore. It’s not as if I miss the place or even think about it, but more often than not, its the set for my dream theater.

Four years ago I went back to 617 ‘O’ Block, which is now occupied by a childhood friend and his family. The entire time that I was there I felt a strong sense of discomfort. I haven’t figured out if it was due to my friend intruding into my memories or if I still felt a sense of ownership for a space that was no longer mine. When they moved into the flat, they inherited a trunk with some possessions from our lives. Crazy about rock music from a very early age, there was a stack of LP records that I was so happy to see but had no clue what I could do with them. The biggest treasure in that trunk however, was a graduation photo of my mother, which I was sure had been lost.

Last year I passed by the building again but didn’t stop. The exteriors looked like they had been recently painted. I asked the taxi driver to slow down a little as I kept looking back until it was no longer in my line of vision. No there was no feeling of melancholy, no moistening of the eyes and no lump in the throat. That apartment was no longer home but it’s memories would be mine forever.

Someone I met recently asked where home was for me.

I thought about it for a second and replied, “it’s wherever I am at the moment”.