LOVE YOUR
HOME
A few days
back I was watching a documentary on one of the information channels on TV. It spoke of the massive human displacements in the
history of the world.
It was 26th
April, 1986. The sun shone brightly and the chill in the air was just about
turning its level up as the working town of Pripyat in the then USSR, stirred
from its warm beds and duvets to welcome yet another beautiful April day.
Stoves burst into tiny blue flames and kettles whistled gleefully. Cups filled
with black coffee and hot buns wafted out of ovens filling hungry stomachs.
Mothers begged kids to get ready for schools and rushed to pack tiffins as
husbands left for their work at the nuclear facility that formed the backbone
of this bustling town of about two million people. State buses plied from one
corner of the town to other dropping off children to school and workers to
their work site. The early morning rush gradually subsided to a slower pace as
home-makers heaved sighs of relief, waving good-byes to happy faces that left
their home on yet another ordinary morning. The pots whistled again, this time
for a relaxed cup of coffee and a cursory glance at the news-paper which didn’t
really tell much. As the clock shifted its hands, women got busy with cleaning
up their homes, stashing away used plated and cups in the basin, folding the
carelessly thrown duvets, readjusting the antique pieces that stood proudly on
the fireplace sill and ruffling up the cushions on the deep suede coaches and
chairs making the house beautiful again after it had been visited by the storm
called 'morning'!
The early
morning hustle bustle in the home gradually shifted to the tree-lined streets
by mid-morning as house-wives strolled on the pavements, some with babies
sucking on their thumbs as they peacefully slept in their prams, people out for
a quick break of coffee and gossip and shoppers lazily taking in the drab
merchandise flaunted by hopeful shop-keepers, buying groceries and meat and
bread for the next few days. Another day was well into its routine and life
seemed just as smooth as the dawn that would begin the next day. All that the
men looked forward to was going back home in the evening after a hectic day at
the site, sipping vodka as the chill upped its ante, the kids looked forward to
rushing home after school, kicking their bags and shoes and running to the
public garden for swings and slides and tired after shopping and gossiping,
moms waited for all this to happen so that they could happily scream at the
unlistening brats and find comfort in the warm hug of their ‘man’.
Just as the
afternoon got underway, a deep siren was heard all over Pripyat and people were
asked to rush back home and stay indoors till further announcement. Worried
residents quickly rushed back to their comfort zone, waiting for their loved
ones to return not really understanding the situation. In fact they were used
to the eccentricities of the regime and waited peacefully in the safety of their
homes. By evening, residents were asked to pack a few belongings sufficient for
a couple of days and get into one of the hundreds of buses that suddenly
arrived from nowhere and started piling people ferrying them to some unknown
destination. There was the devastation at the site, but the unsuspecting people
didn't know it as yet. It would be a long wait of more than three decades
before any of the surviving residents of Pripyat would ever be allowed to see
their beautiful homes created and built with love and care, now lying in utter
ruins caused by the devastating explosion of the Chernobyl reactor.
Across the
continent, a similar fate would befall on the residents of a small mining town
in Oklahoma USA where the decades of mining zinc from the belly of the earth
caused toxic minerals and poisons to seep into the water, soil, plantations and
foundations of homes causing tremendous health hazards and conditions that
eventually became unlivable. Once a bustling and happy town of people who
worked hard in the zinc mines, made good money, enjoyed their favourite beer at
the local pub, children who went to the only but well appointed school and
women who were house-proud, lived in dainty yet tastefully done bungalows and
kept their homes and hearths beautiful and happy.
Gradually, the toxic minerals
seeped into plumbing pipes and brick walls, in the pretty rose gardens and
giant magnolia trees, in the water and food and the very air that these happy
people were breathing. Health took its toll and mighty walls crumbled. Trees
died untimely deaths and flowers wilted even before they could bloom. The homes
built brick by brick with so much love and care became traps of ill-health and
doom consuming the very happiness that defined the lives of these people. One
by one homes were abandoned, precious furniture and clothes, antiques and
statuettes that adorned the fireplace were left behind, memories framed in
pictures with toothless babies smiling, families smiling together, couples
holding hands and looking longingly into each other’s eyes and the portraits of
parents now no more, hung over walls in the living room and the stairway were
kept back so that one could come and take them back. None could come back. One
by one, homes became empty spaces of broken hearts and lost memories as people
fled the town fearing for their lives with only their few belongings and a deep
sense of loss.
The common
thread that bound these two tragedies was the loss of the place they called home, one which they had built with blood and sweat, love and
trust. As the camera panned across broken glass windows and rusted doors, one
could see the pain of these homes in torn and broken sofas, frames bereft of
photos hanging lopsidedly on walls that had fungus all over burrowing through
peeled out layers of paint and deepening cracks. Broken tables and chairs
strewn over in what was once a living room spoke of the tragedy that had
befallen that home. Yellowed books, stuffed toys mutilated by time, mattresses
with springs jutting out like giant teeth, cupboards ajar with shock of a
bygone time, vines growing over kitchen tables that once proudly displayed the
owner's skilled hands and broken cups and plates that had seen good days were
reminders of the broken hearts and lives of families who once laughed and
cried, joked and sang, ate and slept under these now rotting roofs. Homes lost
forever for people who had asked for nothing more than a happy place to live
with the loved ones.
As I saw
this devastation, what deeply hurt me apart from the tremendous health and
financial devastation, was the starkly apparent fact that all these people had
lost their homes. How important is our home to us? Why do we spend our lives
working tirelessly to build our very own abode, brick by brick putting our
blood and sweat into the four walls we call home?
As children
we grow up in the secure environment of our home without realizing how it came
to be. It's just there as we adjust our first vision of this world, learn to
take our first step, cut our first teeth and begin our first journey to growing
up as we embark on our schooling. The home waits for us as we come back every day,
kick our shoes, throw our bags and feel safe again. The food waits on the table
for our hungry stomachs and the warm cosy bed invites us to slip gently into
the world of dreams as we await yet another happy day. There is laughter
ringing through the rooms like the sunshine filtering through the window panes,
there is love and trust in that home of ours just as it's rock solid
foundation. We learn to care and we learn to share. We learn to pray and are
taught the value of what comes to us. We go through rituals specific to our
house and begin to understand their importance for our lives. We celebrate our
festivals, marriages, ceremonies and achievements with our parents guiding us,
teaching us and helping us to absorb the meaning of goodness and culture, tradition
and humaneness. As is true of the happy moments, so are the tragedies we learn
to cope with holding the hands of our elders as they gently wipe our tears and
help us to accept all the vagaries of life with courage and conviction. We grow
up.
As the wheel
of life moves, we become the roof and the shelter and create our own abode
giving our children what we were given. Our home stands on the values we have
imbibed helping us to create the next generation of goodness and humaneness.
Every little nook and corner of this home smells of the fragrance we carry. The
colors, the furniture, the paintings, the photo frames, the flower pots, the
beds, the cushion covers, the handles on the cupboards, the glasses, the pots
and pans, each little thing has our name stamped on it. Each little thing that
makes up our home has a little story behind it. The arguments, the angry
fights, the resignation or occasionally the simultaneous liking by all the
family members hides in the depth of each thing that finds a way into our
homes. In most homes, our deities find a place of pride and worship and are
reverently placed for blessings and safety. Like hundreds of inanimate objects,
love and happiness too filter in through the open doors and windows. Our
children grow in this place they would know eventually when they grow up and
move out into their world. But for now, it is our own place where we smile,
laugh, cry, hide, fight, argue, love, eat and sleep seeing the dreams we want
to see.
Our home
defines us, it defines our childhood and it defines the person we will
eventually become. Our home gives us the security of living our life on our own
terms in our own space. Our home gives us the life we dream of, gives us the
people we love and gives us the strength to fly into the vast skies with our
feet firmly on the ground.
The thought of losing this precious belonging appalled me. My heart cried for those on whom
such cruel tragedy befalls. Most importantly, I once again realised how blessed
I am for this home and life as I stood in my living room looking at the walls
which gently hugged me, caressed me and reassured me!
Love your
home!!
