New house

(Cat perched on the window sill, refusing to let me open it)

I’ve moved to a new home. One that I’m learning to call 'ours' and learning to make mine. It’s a house much bigger than the one I’m used to.

I'm leaving behind what was once fondly referred to as the 'cupboard under the staircase' by a friend. A single room house with a single window to the outside world. One without a view too but tonnes of sound. In this house, there was once a plastic company with several hundred men coming in to get plastic sheets and water can bubble tops. Lots of activity but only hushed discussions about business and the occasional large honking truck waiting to deliver goods.

Once they moved out, the house became more lively. A family of 11 from Bathalagundu came in with lawyers, housewives and an old thatha who would perch himself on a red plastic chair, watching the world go by and sometimes judging me for the number of Swiggy and Zomato take-outs that would arrive at home.

I was there when I heard the initial wails that usually come with death. I had heard scuffling, yelling and sobs of young women with whom I would earlier exchange smiles with as I enter the compound gate. The thatha had died but eventually, life went on in the house.

TV would be off by 9.30 p.m. Windows would closed to avoid mosquitoes. Sunday afternoons would have the whole compound filled with the aroma of excellent chicken biryani and sometimes, rarely, the sound of a croaking chicken before it died.

I could hear the bathroom flushing, arguments during important conversations and pearls of laughter during some rummy games.

The only times I would directly engage is when we would all gather to see if the motor stopped working and complain to the owner together. We would occasionally ask each other to move our vehicles but that was it.

When I left this house in May, I rang their doorbell for the first time to tell them that I'll be back soon. "Oru kannu mattum vechukonga. Veetu pooti kedakapogudhu. Bike kooda vella iruku". They wished me well and asked me not to bring corona back from Chennai. A joke.

I had not said goodbye to them and I'm never going to return.

When I was in cupboard house, I cursed myself for being in a room without a single gap. There was no breathing space, a single cot, a million other mosquitoes, an oil stained kitchen, a claustrophobic bathroom and a towering sense of loneliness. During these times, the house with the lawyers reminded me that there was another home waiting for me. Wider doors, lesser noise, more space and probably a game of rummy with pearls of laughter too.

In this new house though, I wonder how I'd ever get used to the space. I've realised that I restrict myself to the kutti room where I can tuck myself in a corner. Similar to what I once called mine.

The neighbour situation seems promising though. Lots of dancing, young children and family dinners from what I hear. I'll write to you soon.