We bought a house
“Incredible” they said “at such a young age”.
“We won’t have to worry about the mould or the chipped off paint at least”
We pondered,
“The EMI is higher than the rent, but at least it’s ours”.
It has a balcony in every room.
Huge French windows and a view of the pool.
What followed was months of utter chaos.
Excitement sure, but chaos.
All the shenanigans that comes with doing your house- designing, hardware store visits,
Selecting tiles and mirrors,
Wallpapers and paint colors.
“Madness”, I told my husband,
“Absolutely,” he echoed.
But through it all,
My constant companions:
A sharp pain in my heart. A dull blur in my mind.
And a numbing stillness in my heart,
Begging me to soothe.
And the perpetual frustration of my brain–
Trying to untangle a thousand wires.
Those months I thought of my father a lot.
Way more than usual.
Of what transpired between us,
The lack of a relationship,
Of all the things he did not do,
And all the things he did.
Of all the things I didn’t feel
And all the things I felt –but never loved.
Months after we moved into our house,
That my husband and I bought together,
That he put all his savings to,
The pain eased in,
The wires were lost.
I still thought of my father a lot.
I think I always will,
Every time I miss having one,
Every time someone talks about theirs,
Every time I come across a father-centric plot in a movie or book,
Every time I visit Tamil Nadu,
Every time something hurts,
Every time I see my mother alone- happy, but alone.
And the worst of all;
Every time I feel grounded ,
And every time I am truly loved.
