A Feeling Called Home

In the summer of 2013, I left my ancestral house —a mid-nineteenth-century, one-storeyed building in South Kolkata—where I had lived my entire childhood and adolescent days.

- Sreelekha Chatterjee

Standing in front of the house—that seemed like a burnt, over-baked biscuit, ready to crumble at the slightest touch—it felt strange, emptied of the life that its inhabitants once brought in—the uproarious laughter, the delectable excitement, the delicious joys and occasional, brief sorrows of yesteryear.

I moved to Bangalore for better job prospects. Though the change was for positive aims, the deep loss I felt every day of my life was totally unforeseen as if I had left behind a portion or probably the whole of myself in that ancient house that had become a part of my self-identity.

I could never call another place my home other than this familial house of mine where I found my usual, accustomed sources of aid and comfort. A sense of deprivation—saturating dissatisfaction— chased me throughout the past decade that I had been in a different city. A home is more than a scrumptious meal to satisfy our appetite for hunger and a cozy bed to relax and rejuvenate.

A busy life and my demanding job prevented me from making frequent visits to this house and after the pandemic hit the world, I hadn’t stepped on that premises. I wouldn’t have returned now if I hadn’t received the message from my elder brother and younger sister—“Brother, we’re getting the house demolished.”They had left the house long before me. Other than me, the older generation had held the house close to their hearts, but they, along with their longing and affection for their dwelling, were lost in the due course of time.