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By Hrishit Pandey

In the bliss of that evening sunset, I had decided to leave for college. I and those who knew me already knew about everything that had happened. I agree that my body felt immense bone cracking pain, yet my bones allowed me to take in this moment. To give you some quick context - I have an auto-immune disease; which brings me to my limits when triggered. At the moment of my life when I am writing this, I have experienced it 2-3 times already. So today, I have got an idea of how to deal with it. But the time for which this writeup is set was my first time facing it. The liveliest boy in the entire colony, has been completely silent for months. The most talkative person in the entire locality has been on mute ever since diagnosed with Reactive Arthritis.

It was the times of pandemic when COVID-19 had shut down everything. I know that the year was probably the worst in recent memory but strangely enough, it turned out to be very lucky for me. I was in 12th standard back then. I would like to flatter myself now by assuming some non-Indian is reading this right now. Just for them - in India atleast in the Northern India, the schools end in 12th standard, after which the student can pursue whatever they want - mostly for everyone it happens to be college (for further studying). Due to the ongoing pandemic all the schools were shut down across India. Had it not been for COVID-19, I definitely would have needed to take an year’s drop from school. But as the times unfolded for me - I got away sneaking pitifully from mercy. Today I refrain from accepting that it has been very hard for me, not when I have experienced miracles happening in my favour; but then I’d be blatantly ignoring the struggles my past has gone through. But isn’t ignorance bliss? Not for this writeup as today I have been compelled to write these words.

My medical history, my fitness, my restrictions, my hopes - all have been extreme. Yet they form the premise of another essay. This one is only meant for nothing else but my home.

The entirety of my childhood has gone in one place - Dehradun. Nearly all of my time has gone surrounding one small, modest building. Located at the end of the colony which hailed its territory starting from my house to the end of the small lane which merged into the main street. Even the image of that place today, fills my heart with grief - fills my throat with tears held back, populate my mouth with words unspoken and finally shakes my lips with the terror of never going back again. Since I was a child, I have been an empathetic person. I endeared my house. My house had its own personality for me. I had named it home. Every wall in every room, every bulb in every wall, every marble in every floor. Everything has been my friend. At some time or the other, I had stepped on these, caressed my hands through these, walked by these ignoring the warmth with which they used to greet me. I am not trying to romanticise it now, but I remember admiring every building block of my home - starting from the people that build it.

My father - now retired from job was a journalist then. My mother was the homemaker. I had a sister who was 3 years elder to me. Just like my home, my family was extremely modest too. As an honest journalist, my father had already bared the functioning of the real world to us. My mother was the embodiment of struggle which remains unnoticed. All of her time was spent on me and my sister. My father was working through day and night when my mother was utilising the time to teach me and my sister. Even today, I learn new things from her. I have never seen my mother on a holiday. Now, I see her rest from time to time because her children are a little abled now. But then we were nothing. Literally nothing for the world. We might have been good neighbours, reliable members of the society, but nothing else. Something which upheld our pedestal to the society was our home. Any memory of my home even today echoes with my mother’s voice.

My sister. This writeup is more about things from her perspective as well. She was always beside me in my home. There would be no corner in my home where we wouldn’t have fought. Even if the walls are losing its paint now, it will forever be plastered with these memories. Even if I forget them, my home will protect them.

Adhering to time and expectations, my sister had already left home for college. I was in 12th standard and soon it was my time to move out. All my hopes and dreams then were with regards to what we lacked. I have seen struggle my entire childhood. Not the kind where you save money for future, but the kind where you cannot spend more. Yet, besides all these restrictions I have lived through a satisfying childhood. I am satisfied the way I lived; I am content with what I had - I am even surprised how empowering my parents stayed around me. I had never heard a no from them; so I never demanded anything unreasonable. But nothing was reasonable during the pandemic.

My sister had decided for her future - a course of following years, with very little monetary investment. But the tradeoff for that was durative investment, with struggling returns. Down the line of time, they surely would fetch her the fruits of her investment - but that was a long line. In some time, it will be my turn at college. A few years ahead, my father will be retiring. We didn’t have much savings - not that we lacked the far-sightedness back then; we just lacked the resources.

You do understand that for a lower middle-class family of four, it leaves very few occupations for future investments. It was not an investment for us then; it was a dream. It doesn’t matter if we were a little short on money, each one of us was filled with patience, hope, optimism and to bind all of that together was our home. My home was a witness to my changing dreams - from a cricketer to a scientist to a gardener to an engineer to being happy again. I don’t want to sound sardonic by subtly mentioning of this absence of happiness. My home was filled with it, yet times were not.

I was in 11th. I had a good 10th result - which alone paved the ornamented pavement to the engineer dream. My sister had already left for college, which was good for her - yet nothing that could back the monetary support in the near future. This increased my burden of dream with expectations I had from myself - not for myself. Now becoming an engineer as the result was significantly more important for me. Yet the process of becoming one was not. I was a lazy boy, a carelessly lazy boy, who always used to aim for the lower benchmarks. Struggling to reach the higher rank was not something I chased, and I hated myself for that. Over the years I have seen people becoming better than me after starting from a reasonably struggling position. I could never understand why I didn’t do anything when I always valued the stakes I was forced to play at. This doesn’t mean I was bad; I was reasonably above the average cut - but I was not as good as I could have been.

This ended my 11th, and as any hopeful student I entered the 12th standard to make a mark for myself. I remember returning home from my school tired from the academics. Then I used to have my lunch and without a break left for more coaching. Then again, I would return tired, but my home was always there to welcome me. And that always reassured me of the present.

Someone with such levels of aspirations and dreams and laziness has entered the most important year in his life. It was at such a crucial point when he was brought down to his knees because of this strange illness. The kind of illness, which took months before getting diagnosed - in the process of which its symptoms exponentially worsened. My cells were killing my own cells, while the medicines that were supposed to stop them were killing my spirit. I had been away from studies for months. I had no papers, the classes were online, and my teachers were kind enough to grace my absence. My entire 12th passed away like this.

In retrospection, when I look back at that time - I don’t hate it at all. Pain is forgotten with time, what’s left now is only an after-taste of that experience. And no experience is ever bad for me. I tend to take away the good from everything. I have understood that I have that rare ability to see good in even the worse. But emotional beings like us - who are cursed with cognition, conscience and morality can never live with just appreciation. There needs to be something to dump all the hatred on. Luckily for me, all my hate is always directed at me. Thus, every lived experience is good in memory.

As the year passed, the exams approached as well. Luckily the board examinations to announce our successful termination of school as graduates, was annulled. But that didn’t mean everything was sorted. So, in India we have annual competitive examinations to get admission into colleges. I had enrolled into the JEE, to get into a good college and become a good engineer. But the direness of the blatant present then, made it appear like a dreamy dream for me.

Under extremely heavy medications, I sat the halls with other students, marking answers based on my forgotten knowledge of 11th, limited knowledge of 12th, intuition and luck. Then a miracle happens. I scored 93.36 %ile, which is not a good score, but it was good enough to get into a respectable private college. Many people whom I will meet down the line of time would say to me how easy it has been for me. What a simple life I have lived. And I don’t mind all that, because I have always only projected that. All the complexity has always just meant for me.

Now, a day before the results were announced, I was considering doing BA in English or history instead. I won’t shy away from admitting that I even thought about becoming a film director. And I hate myself for even dreaming about things like that. Not when I had zero financial backing. And most definitely not when I had already burdened the coming years with a satisfaction whose roots were stemming from a desired happiness of my parents - which can only be attained by these decisions of mine.

While these desires are necessary to drive forward, to become successful - I regret not appreciating what I owned at that moment. I was blessed enough to live in a building; I could call my home surrounded by people I cherished as my family. The family is still moving with space, but my home - how can I forget about those windows which used to announce to me that it’s time to play. Or that terrace where I used to play with my friends. How can I forget about the bed I used to sleep on along with my mother and sister. How can I forget about the feeling of being woken up by my mother on that bed, fighting with my sister for who will take a bath first, how can I forget the rustling of the leaves just outside my window, how can I? It’s not possible, I cannot forget my way of life, I just didn’t appreciate it when I had it.

I don’t remember how that evening was like - the day before I was supposed to leave for college. I only remember the crying face of my mother as she bid farewell to me. I don’t remember going through the rooms of my home, thanking them for all the memories, remembering all the time we shared together. I don’t remember turning back again and again to see another glimpse of my disappearing home.

I don’t think losing my home was among my list of insecurities then. How can you lose something you look forward to return to? Yet today, after so many years have gone by, I have not returned to my home. I have passed by as a stranger but never relived.

Due to personal matters which again should be responsible for a new writeup, it looks uncertain for me to ever go back to my home. I regret wasting the opportunity I had to bid farewell to my home. I regret thanking my home for everything. I see people hustling to own a home, I also see people complaining about their home, I fail to understand people who have multiple houses but no home.

Maybe because I am a homeless man who has a loving family to return to, but their common memory is gone. It is right in front of us. Yet I cannot enter those premises like how I used to from school. I’m ready to barter many things, just to watch my mother waiting at the door for me as I return to my home, or as I rush to open the door for my father as he is returning from work, or as I carry the bags of my sister as she is leaving for college.

My sweet home.

By Hrishit Pandey