I have often wondered about the things we do when we move into a new home. We love to set up the place and try and give it our own identity. The posters of our favourite movies will be fixed to the walls, plants shall slowly take space and grow in our balconies. Our pets will find and settle into a corner of their own. The sound from the music system is designed to set up sometimes to fill the emptiness that comes from living in reasonably vast spaces. When we end up doing this, we believe that all of these adornments are our contribution to the space. In doing so, we believe that our identity fills up this space that we have chosen or are sometimes destined to occupy for a large part of our lives.
Perhaps that may be the case. But often when you have settled long enough into a house where you can claim it to be your own space, you will find that it is not necessarily these posters, fancy lamp shades or elegant furniture that gives you a sense of solace and contentment but how the external elements of nature almost fluidly make themselves felt in your home. The cats will wake up to the early morning sun light that fills up the hall through open windows. The plants which are yet to bloom will gradually turn and face the light for nourishment. If there is something to be learnt from plants, it is the virtue of stillness. Bhajans will come through the kitchen window mixed with the aroma of early morning masala used for our breakfast. If you live in an apartment , a group of langurs will camp outside your balconies to ask for food or to amuse them selves at the sight of a species that has evolved from them. If you are lucky enough to live in the high rises, you will find the sight of hawks that fly with grace at a height that property developers and the human race have yet to reach.
The home or what we call as our private space is privy to both morning and night. If there is serenity in the morning, you will find calmness in the night. Late at night, the hawkers return from the local vegetable market, hale and merry at the sight of having sold their produce for the day. As they run along on cartwheels to get to home, old bollywood numbers from their not so smart phones are played at loud volumes. In the winter, you can see a slight fog that spreads through the city. In a small town, the only sound at night is the sound of the city vehicles honking their way through this mist. The mazdoors who are working on the apartment that is going to come up next to yours with state of the art facilities have called it an early night. But one of them is still up playing the flute while looking at the moonlight.
We set about wanting to make our private space our own. But it is this space that often becomes the place through which we see the outside world in our quieter times. And as a part of the outside world becomes you in this inside space, there is a metamorphosis of sorts. The way through which we blend with the surroundings is slow, seamless but inevitable. And when we relocate to a space which shall be new and foreign to us, as we all shall, we carry a space of this outside world with us wherever we go.
In our posters, plants and our new perspectives.