Abode of Love

Dry autumn leaves crunch under my foot as I make my way through the overgrown and unkempt garden leading to an old apartment building complex. I climb the stairs slowly, one floor after the other, till I step into the hallway that leads to my old apartment. I stop outside the familiar door, wondering how come I’d never come back to live in Pune, despite it being the place where I’d spent formative years of my life and my parents, who’d spent a quarter of a century here. During the early days after I’d moved out of the apartment, I did come back but my visits were always short and nothing more than layovers. Standing outside the door now, years later, I let the thought sink in: it is my house that holds decades’ worth of my family’s memories. My heart feels heavy as my memories of the place poke at my mind to be set free.

Tentatively, I reach for the door handle and turn it. It is a small apartment, I realize the moment I step inside, which seems even smaller now that I am an adult. My eyes fall into the corner and recall how Appa would be sitting there in his chair. His reading material piled high on either side of his desk, perfectly obscuring his face from those who entered. His table was the first one my eyes fell onto whenever I returned from school. I remember how Amma used to serve him his coffee at the chair where he read. I remember how he used to doze off there during daylight hours, with his shoulders down and chin resting against his chest. His soft snores often echoed in the apartment, making me and my sister giggle and that added to Amma’s annoyance. Yet, she never woke him up. Maybe, she’d just given up trying to get him to take a nap in his bed.

I walk further inside the house, the tips of my fingers whispering over the old walls with peeling wallpapers. No one lives here now, but the memories haven’t faded away. I can still feel the aroma of shared love my parents had for their children. It still lingers, over the walls and in the corners. I remember seeing my parents sit together for joint prayers, the prayers that were entirely for their children. For me, and my sister. They prayed for our wellbeing and prayed for us to gain enough strength to make it through life during tough times. I stop at the threshold of what used to be my parents’ bedroom and swear that I can hear the sigh of the mantras my Amma would chant for our health and happiness at every chance she got. It still hangs in the air, lingering there as if she’d recited those just moments ago.

My eyes shift the space beside my parents’ bedroom door, and stop at the shadow of a telephone set affixed to the wall. I can imagine how Amma must’ve hovered around it, in stillness of the interminable days of anticipation, waiting for our calls. I can still hear the echo of gentle tinkle of the soft counsel on how we should manage time, to how we must eat healthy food, to how I could juggle between looking after my daughter and being present at my work still rings there.

My thoughts fly back to countless other telephonic conversations in the early days of my marriage. How she showed her deep desire to be a grandparent which was expressed without expectation or how her words were a warm cradle to soothe an overwrought mind after a tiff with the spouse. I can hear her tell us in firm though unstated assurance that they were always there for us.

My feet take another step down the narrow hall, listening to countless other words that my parents whispered while in passing. They splash off the walls in waves and engulf me like silk, like a cloak of love.

I peek into the only room where I lived with my sister. I can recall the handful of moments when I’d been alone there with my mother. I can still feel her warm embrace and soothing words whispered into my hair. I remember my father’s soft voice, reading to us or telling us about an adventure he had at work. I swear I can hear my sister’s loud giggles mixed with my parents’ carefree laughter which held so much love for us.

At this moment, I realize that ever there be a dwelling place for love, it is that abode that my parents called their home.