Never going home

At a certain point in your life you can never go home again. I am not speaking of the home you created for yourself and your family as an adult. I am speaking of the home where you were a girl. Its not about growing up – its more like growing away. Distances of the heart can be quite daunting to traverse. In my case I lost my home when my father passed away sixteen years ago.

My father was a very warm person. He loved being a parent. It was not foisted upon him. His family was his greatest joy. He was not a successful man in terms of monetary savings. His success was that of being a good human being. Caring came so naturally to him that people were drawn to him because they were always assured of love, a hot meal and some good advice or sometimes just a listening ear. I wish my father were around for many reasons but one of the strongest is that if he were here I would still have a home to go to.

Keeping down two jobs – both of different passions – while taking care of two children, one of whom has needs that keep varying and sometimes escalating, is not easy. For many years my husband travelled for more days than he spent at home and so I was the single parent, the one my children knew would be with them no matter want. I was there for their school work. I was there to take them to the doctor when they were sick. I was there to make dinners for them that they looked forward to and were excited by. I was the one to fill the house with laughter and friends so my children would know how important it was to be open-hearted. It is not that my husband did not help. It was just that if I didn’t teach the children about caring, they would simply not know. It is my father’s legacy that I give to his grandchildren. He would’ve been proud at their good-heartedness. That is best gift I can lay at his feet.

I love taking care of others but there are times when I want to be taken care of. And I have no one who would do it unasked. That’s when I remember my father the most. Acha knew before I did when I was hungry. He knew when I needed to hear a certain story to give me guidance. He knew the depth of the inner fire in me that leads me to tackle the toughest challenges. Now, I have no one to go home to. No matter how tired I am, I can’t just pack up and take a break at my home. For in place of that home stands a derelict house – cobwebbed and dusty beyond measure. Even the memories seem to be submerged under layers of neglect. And so I go nowhere.

My husband’s family too is in Kerala but there I feel like a freak – always told by my mother-in-law how unfit I am to be her son’s wife. I can do no right. I do not speak to her on the phone. The reason is simple. One New Year’s day when I bent to touch her feet, she pushed me away and with a look of supreme disgust on her face she said “Its about time you stopped this stupid habit.” I stepped back stung and my eyes filled with tears. This was a habit my father had ingrained in me – to touch the feet of elders when I leave a house or when I greet them. Her pushing me away symbolized her disrespecting my father and for me there was no recovering from that.

In all the years since my father’s death, no one has called me “Moley” the way he did. For the family I married into, I was never “Moley” – I was just Anima. For everyone I was just Anima. There are certain things I can never get again. That is why I feel irrevocably lost when I think of a home to go back to.

The reason I am writing this though is that there was an incident some days ago when I called a favourite elderly friend of mine. He is a wonderful theatre personality and an excellent raconteur. I called to wish him on his birthday. And his delighted “Moley” made my eyes tear up. After so long, someone called me “Moley” in a tone so infused with affection that my throat closed up. For a fraction of a second, I felt very much loved. It was as if Acha had known how badly I wanted to hear it. I felt incredibly blessed. Maybe you can’t go home again but then maybe there may be a new home in hearts that are willing to love and care – with Acha’s blessing, I will always have that.