Butterflies and Hurricanes

The concept of turning into a grown-up is a strange one. You don’t really realise when it begins to happen. You feel young, you feel wild, you go out and party, you socialise, attend concerts and comedy shows, and you know most pop-culture fads. And one day, all of a sudden, you have no idea what the cool kids are talking about on Instagram. You find yourself getting immense joy in simply cleaning your kitchen counter, stocking your fridge with a fresh batch of veggies and spending hours in the comforting cocoon that is your blanket. 

I’m four months shy of turning thirty, and there’s still a huge part of me that simply wants to wear my jammies, eat salt and onion flavoured chips, drink chai (or wine) (or both) and play video games all day. That’s who I aspire to be sometimes. Just… nobody remarkable. No pressure. Just the gentle ease of ordinary living. The tender familiarity of domestic comfort. The calming drone of devices functioning in the background. The soothing knowledge of knowing your bank account gets replenished at the end of each month. That’s enough. For now. 

I visited my parents’ house a couple of weeks ago. And, I’ve realised the concept of revisiting that part of your past is a strange one too. Visiting the house you grew up in is unsettling in so many ways. For starters, you don’t call it ‘home’ anymore. Of course, in a sense it will always be home, but… not really. 

When I go back ‘home’, I try to find solace in familiar nooks and corners. The ancient dining table where I had lunch for the first two-thirds of my life, the pink flowers blooming in my grandfather’s potted plants, the terrace that has been witness to my awkward teenage years, the mulberry trees in the park next to my house. Back there, I’m not the Astha I have become today. The woman who is mostly okay with who she is. Hell, dare I say even likes who she is(!) Back there, I’m still the gangly, lonely, misunderstood girl who grew up with acne on her face; one who could never accept how she looked or who she was. The girl who still holds on to every hurtful thing grown-ups said to her, and how she was made to feel like whoever she was… was wrong. She still lurks in the corner and stares at me, forcing me to stare back. She looks at me with unwavering, accusatory eyes and silently questions why I was so harsh with her. I want to hold her and tell her I’m sorry, but I think we both need more time. 

The house doesn’t look the same anymore. Thanks to its recent makeover, my room doesn’t look anything like it used to. It smells different, it feels different. Hell, I rarely ever go back there. It stands out awkwardly, a little detached from the rest of the house: a little too cold, a little too private, a little too distant. It’s like one of those wayward teeth that protrudes gawkily unlike the rest of the graceful, aligned bunch. Funny how much our personalities matched. The annexe, as I used to think of it, was me, my world, my unreliable but non-judgemental companion. It had posters of my favourite bands, books and memorabilia in every open space. It’s funny how little I think about it now. 

Back home, there are so many things you can predict but they still catch you by surprise. How the peacocks begin to squawk when you’re on an office call, how wonderful and creamy fresh milk tastes, how indescribably delicious mom’s matar paneer always is, how dad’s dry fruits tumble out of every shelf, how unbelievably crammed the kitchen drawers are. Everything feels familiar and alien at the same time. Your hand doesn’t hit the correct switch every time you turn a light on, you keep forgetting where the trays are kept, and you don’t know mom’s new system of stacking spices in the cabinet. It takes you a little longer to find a comfortable spot on the bed, and your old mattress takes time to swallow you in it. Your toothbrush isn’t already in the bathroom anymore, you don’t recognise some of your old books on the shelf, and you haven’t ridden your scooter in years. 

Then there are deeper, more obvious signs that catch you off guard. Your grandparents aren’t around anymore. You still hear their phrases in your ears though, clear as a river. Your dad’s legs have begun to look like your grandfather’s—thin but sturdy, smooth but full of cuts and nicks. Much like yours. Your mom doesn’t look fresh and young anymore. She snaps at you in a moment of irritation, and you realise you’ve turned out to be quite like her, despite all your attempts at doing the exact opposite. You revel in the fact that you’ve also inherited her mannerisms and sense of humour, and you both share a laugh with ease. When you talk to your parents, you realise how different your ideologies are, your political and social views, your philosophies and sensibilities. And yet, you’ve never felt more secure. Topics change every few minutes until you’re all roaring with laughter at an old forgotten memory. That’s what binds you to them: your creators, your care-givers, your mom and dad who, despite their follies and foibles, have only tried to look out for you. What an achingly strange feeling to go back and meet them, and meet several parts of yourself as well. 

When you get ready to leave, you are shocked to see their eyes welling up. It feels wrong. You panic for a second. Why do we have to go? It’s all right. We’ll come back. We’re all different people living our own lives now. And I understand that, and they understand that, and there is peace, and love and acceptance in that moment. You hug, despite the pandemic. You smile and say something silly as tears sting your eyes. You hold on to the smell of their sweat, affection and honesty. 

Every single time I go home, I’m reminded of a pair of old, running shoes that I own. I’ve outgrown them, I almost never wear them, but when I step into them, the well-cushioned sole always takes me by surprise. Once you leave your parents’ house, your definition of home takes many forms. It could be your hostel room, or the several apartments that took you in, or it could be a person. It could be a song, a feeling, or maybe the life you’ve envisioned for yourself. 

Back in my current home in the safe confines of my blanket, I take heart in the fact that there is a place in the world where my memories reside, where my childhood is still alive, where my parents greet us at the door, where I can go back and reconcile with all the Asthas I’ve been before. I don’t like every single second I spend there, and the present version of me may rebel and rage, but isn’t that what life is always about? Accepting the ghosts of our past, holding on to the bits we like, and moving along. Our parents’ home may not be home in the truest sense of the word, but it’s what comes closest to it. I realise this as I swallow the lump that forms in my throat and turn the lights off. Tomorrow is another day.