Reach of a destination…

This home is a story-teller. As I open each room I am greeted by musky air and the memories walk in with me. I head for the rooftop. There is a half-built room which was supposed to be my alcove for writing, a gift to me. This fragmented reality binds me to death that bestows incompleteness. With termination from life the question of why becomes irrelevant, so one has to resort to the question of how in order to compromise. And thus I had agreed that the dead be laid to rest in close proximity of this home in the firm belief that the departed souls would always bless this shelter and its dwellers. In spite of death's resolute severance from life, the contest between the two never ends! I can see the family graveyard from here and in silence I pay my respects to the loved ones. I still have the need to feel they acknowledge me as I return.
From here the view of guava, mango, jackfruit, lychee, grapefruit, coconut trees warm my heart, but to my disappointment I cannot locate the Krishnochura. I fancy its quiet splendour among the gigantic greens. I guess with it many other trees might have become vulnerable to the seasons or maybe they were purposely felled. In their absence now several mahogany trees stand tall and the aged Rendi has spread its branches as if to protect the old home. I encounter patches of moss creeping out of the crevices which speak of settled age. The cracks and streaks of green and gray runs on the walls carry the burden of many winters, summers and monsoons. As I meditate on the idea of attachment the silent thoughts and dreams tighten its embrace around me.   
This home has undergone many changes. I climb out of the time barrier to see two spacious rooms surrounded by veranda on all sides. Corrugated tin walls and heavy curtains partitioned the space into sleeping rooms, prayer room, dressing rooms and so forth. As we were transient visitors then it served our purpose well. On the fringe of my memory lingers the favorite dreamland of a seven year old -- the large kaar (attic); its floor made of endurable and seasoned shegun kaath (wood). In order to get to the attic I had to pull down a ladder, climb in, and then shut the door from inside. It was actually one large room covering the entire space of the home. The ceiling was high enough for me to stand and walk around. I could hear the swish of winds pass through. Then there was the magic of sound on the tin roof during torrential rain.
I listened and listened hard, waiting for some echo of an ancient voice! There I also discovered a trove of unusual nature that carried the weight of graces and durability of a home. On one side there were pots and pans of various sizes, mostly large ones neatly stacked, which would come in handy when families dropped by unannounced for lunch or dinner. Such was the custom. It was considered somewhat of a shame to ask neighbors for such trivial items; one always had to be well equipped. Then there were different size dolas (cylindrical barrels made of bamboo slices) that contained variety of rice; some husked to be cooked on special occasions, others unhusked to be used as seeds during the following season.
The rice itself was of various colours. I was told the ones with a bit of reddish coat were the tastiest. The grains were stocked for the entire year. I also discovered colored clay containers of different size. The big shiny ones were burnt to seal the clay pores which gave them their black luster. These were best to retain the crispiness of moori (puffed rice); others contained cheera (pounded rice). I was forbidden to open any of these as it would spoil the contents. A few were sealed with wax to reserve the contents for a long time. I have to confess I did dip my fingers in tan-colored clay pots for I had discovered these contained bheer (liquid molasses), and it tasted good with moori. And then there were old steel trunks with flower patterns on them. These contained kanthas (hand-stitched quilts), pillows, bed-sheets, curtains; the extras to be used when we had visitors. With cultural tides the customs and the make of these items went out of vogue. I am still gripped by these simple objects, preserving sights, dancing sounds, unique aroma; the signature of my roots. The perseverance of these images allows me to uncurl in time, to belong. They authorized me the simplicity of embracing life with candor, trimming down baggage that comes with living.
And then that home came down and a building was built so I could enjoy the modern amenities of life as an adult, that is, if and when I visited. Before arriving here I wondered how I would negotiate with memories so it does not disintegrate, only to realize that the two homes speak not so different a language. In hindsight, there was love then, and now as an adult having arrived here I feel composed, unconcerned with the passing of time and events. The tomorrows will conform to the legacy of belonging, and love of yesterdays. In the course of travel through life I will reach this very same destination time and again. This home is inside me, without a boundary.
As I recollect myself night descends and I can hear the dancing wind weave through the bamboo thickets...

Ainon N --- academic, researcher, writer --- is based in the United States