The Soul of a Home

Do homes have souls? If yes, then where do their souls go when they are ground to dust? Who is their keeper of memories?

“It’s been so long since you last came home. Who knows how much longer we have the house for? Take some time off and come when you can.”

I promised my mother I would come soon before hanging up the phone. The answer was a practiced one that rolled off my tongue smoothly, as if on autopilot. I was already home, I mused. My own home, which my husband and I had built slowly and lovingly, was where I had systematically and painfully shed my many masks, allowing the original skin underneath it all to show—my most authentic face.

This home has a soul that is warm and kind. She does not judge, analyse, or dissect. She accepts us the way we are – works in progress. She knows me, the real me, and loves me anyway. She is filled with light and always ready to welcome guests. At the end of their stay, they always promise to return to her. Her energy is infectious, and it's hard to resist her charm. We know because we will never be able to leave her.

She is not my first home. Like all of you reading this, I have had homes before her—homes that have sheltered and loved, homes that have been vengeful spirits, and homes that have treated me like a guest.

My first home was a two-storey, stand-alone structure with a grand driveway lined with Ashoka Trees. She had a wild soul that was trimmed and pruned regularly, like the Ashoka trees, which were cut into neat triangles, leaving no place for us to hide. She was wise and kind – like a neighbourhood grand aunt who lived alone but longed for company. We were a large family, but none of us noticed her. We did not see her sparkling and shining during festivals, birthdays and parties, beaming at our joyful faces. We did not notice her strong walls that protected us from torrential rains and oppressive humidity. We did not hear her soft cries when the women locked themselves up in their bathrooms to weep. We never thought of her when we left for long holidays, soaking ourselves in lavish pools and splashing amongst the wild waves of the sea. We had no idea that she had a soul – a wise, kind and loving soul that ached for her family. She sheltered me for eleven years. But she did not belong to any of us. The man who owned her did not care for her. She was only a means to an end. A palace of glittering lights, shiny marbled floors and sparkling white walls. A kingdom to rule.

The man was a bad king, filled with pride and a lust for power. He could not keep his kingdom happy. One by one, we all left her. The rooms were locked up. The Ashoka trees grew wild. Cracks appeared on her walls. When the king and queen breathed their last, their youngest son sold her to the highest bidder. There was no one left to protest. No one thought to protect her – the one who had witnessed our lives.

She stands alone now like a forgotten memorabilia from the past, a keeper of our memories waiting to be reduced to rubble. Her grand iron door is rusted. On it hangs a notice—Private property. Trespassers will be prosecuted.

My second home belonged to my mother and her parents. It was the home she had grown up in. Her memories were tucked in every little corner, crevice and crack. She was a beauty, though – my second home. A film star from yesteryears with grace and dignity that only comes with age. Her terrazzo floors gleamed, her large verandah ready for morning and evening tea. Her large rooms with high ceilings were straight out of a Satyajit Ray movie. She was beautiful and regal. But she belonged to the past. She had too much history to hold, leaving little space for us to form new ones. We inhabited her, and she made space for us. We tried to fit in the leftover spaces, in the corners of cupboards and under beds. But no matter what we did, we couldn’t get her to open up to us. She remained aloof, cold even. I would hear her songs, a lament, a soulful cry, a yearning for a time that would never come again. She loved my mother with all her heart, and my mother loved her back. The rest of us got by, hoping that someday we would also belong.

I left her when I was sixteen, away from Calcutta, for a chance at a better education. My third home was my mother’s family, who lived in Bangalore. It was another two-storey structure with a big family—grandparents, two uncles and aunts, four kids, a dog, a cook, a home manager, a driver, and two part-timers. They made a place for me despite a shortage of space. She belonged to my uncles. They treated her well, looked after her and loved her in a way I had not seen. Their parties were full of life, reminding me of a time I had witnessed something similar a long time ago.

I didn’t give her much thought. I was young and ready to claim the world. I treated her like a bed and breakfast, stopping only to rest for the night. There was too much to do, friends to meet, men to fall in love with and money to earn. Life was unfolding at a pace faster than I could keep up with. She was a kind host, letting me come and go at my own pace, knowing that I was just a passerby. We did not develop a relationship. We both knew that it was not worth our time or effort.

I left her after seven years, with two degrees in my hand, and moved to Delhi.

The next five houses that I lived in did not like me. But it was not personal. They had been treated badly by those who owned them and by former tenants who had lived there. They were world-weary, exhausted, and beaten down. They had not been loved, and I could find it in me to fix that. We coexisted, keeping to ourselves.

My history with homes is complicated, fraught with pain, unrequited love, and deep aching loss. My homes were not just concrete brick-and-mortar structures. They were living, breathing beings that witnessed our lives, recorded our histories in their walls and protected us when the world outside collapsed.

My first home is waiting to be reduced to rubble. My second home is being fought over by the landlords who want to erase her to build a shiny new structure. My third home continues to be a bed and breakfast – one that I visit once a year. And my final home, the one that I will grow old in, waits to welcome me after a long day’s work.

I often wonder if homes have souls. Or are they just manifestations of our own desires or lack thereof? Do they take up their owner's personalities, or do they have their own? Where do their souls go when they are ground to dust? Who is their keeper of memories?

As they fall, one by one, razed to the ground, handed over to others, ignored for better opportunities, left behind without thought or lying empty—ghostly and silent—I wonder who will write their stories. Who will remember them when they are gone?

The answer lies in the many stories we tell our children and grandchildren. It lies in the albums filled with photos of birthdays, special occasions and portraits. It lies in us, in our lives – that would have changed if it weren’t for the homes we lived in.

When my mother asks me, “When will you come home?” I have to pause before I answer—to rephrase her sentence in my head. What she means to ask is, “When will you come to my home? Your childhood home. When will you come to us?” because she knows that my home has changed. And she understands.

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This essay has grown from a 400-word short piece, first written at the

Ochre Sky Stories

Writing Circle into a love letter for the homes I have lived in. I am their keeper of memories and witness to their lives.

The personification of homes was inspired by

Raju Tai

’s essay - Personification as a Cheat Code for Creative Expression.

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