LOVE YOUR HOME

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 26^th 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!!