A spot of philosophy is
something we all hate to digest. It strikes us as medicine fit to be discarded;
or, like old, yellowed linen meant to be stuffed in those boxes hidden in
cupboards that never see the sun. Nevertheless, self-made philosophical
thoughts, those nuggets of pure, unadulterated wisdom that come to you on
certain contemplative mornings/nights when the earth with all its noises seems
to be far behind, are little gems we all cherish. Tonight is one such
contemplative nighttime for me.
Tonight, as I sit in my
bed listening to the three-speared ceiling fan make its customary din, I feel
relieved. Having switched off all the devices, websites and applications that
grab my attention for good (except for the laptop and the virtual papyrus I now
use), I concentrate on the real world surrounding me and dedicate my undivided attention
to its silent syncopation.
The night outside is
still; the house noiseless. I close my eyes and listen to my breath and
smell the curry-infused odor of my home. A little quote I read in the Paris
Review has got me thinking once again about home. “Do buildings,” it asks “absorb
traces of their inhabitants? Can yesterday’s private
joys and pains retire—like stale nicotine—into the walls?”
With the advent of the
virtual-world with all its mind-boggling applications and time-passing devices,
we hear the rumbling noise of time’s “winged chariot hurrying near” with such
swiftness that we can hardly keep pace with its contrapuntal rhythm.
Oftentimes, it feels we are walking away from the quintessential joys of
old-world life, the kind we experienced as we grew up. Home, as we now see it,
has changed its form too: the open-spaced two-storied structures of youth have
taken on the form of sky-scraping apartment buildings. Still, despite the
transmogrification, we always regard home as a beloved space of comfort and
joy.
I look at my own little
house: the lemon yellow walls, the antiques I gathered painstakingly, the
family heirlooms I restored, the flowers I planted, the furniture I organized,
the pictures I hung, and come to the conclusion that this eclectic bunch tells
a story— a story about me. My house makes me feel special; it’s my own creative
space where freedom of mind reigns supreme.
The house is my ubiquitous
friend who knows me well having seen me laugh and fight, fail and achieve,
sleep and dream; I have nothing to hide from this beloved space. I don’t have
to change for the house; I can change the house if I wish. Nonetheless, behind
all the changes, all the alterations, I see myself change as well. If you are
sensitive enough you too can experience this brilliant sensation of silently acquiescing
to the unsaid wish of a brick-and-mortar structure of being good to it, and
everything that surrounds it.
Being an enthusiastic
interior decorator, I have experimented with several décor techniques in my
home. The crafty little home that bears the fruits of my limitless
experimentation is no olla podrida, but my dreamscape surrounded by things I
love and cherish. It is those sweet nothings that together give me the peace
and comfort I need when the world outside seems too demanding and un-creative.
Like a child returning to a beloved grandparent, I return to my house to be mollified.
Sometimes, on lonely
afternoons when faint rays of sunshine make their way into my room, I feel that
anybody who came to my house will sense a great deal of love in its atmosphere.
The thought is usually followed with the trepidation as to what might happen if
I have to leave this house and move into another. If such be the case then maybe
I will recreate another haven of joy and comfort and move on, so to speak. But will this house ever forget me and my love
for it? Will not the walls hold in its womb the invisible, yet colorful imprints
of my palm? May be it will; and maybe someday somebody sensitive enough to
imbibe the unforgettable echoes of past will listen to them and contemplate if
the houses that build us remember or forget us when we move out of their comforting
crevasses.
