Home and Hearth

By Aranya Mandal

One day, when the sun in all its glory adorned the skies blue, clouds like snow hung overhead and the gentle caress of the breeze of early summer danced through the forests, I witnessed the place that would be my home, my abode, the place where I wish my flesh and bones, or ashes perhaps, one day shall rest, in the lap of the greenery and under the stars of night when the sun sets. A place of serenity, of memories, of joyous days, of simplicity, of a time devoid of complexities. A land fundamentally devoid of decadence and people who live simple lives.

The house built on graves, a house born of tragedy, so of course irony would have it be the solace of my childhood, the place I yearned forever to visit. A house that sheltered my mother, a house that saw me age from infancy and, as of now writing, into full-fledged manhood. The frontyard with the holy Tulsi, the decrepit and old garage sheds, the deep wells, one filled and one functional, personifying the place into a character, an essence entirely unique to my childhood mind. 

The games played in the yard, the stones thrown, the leaves used as faux currency, the flowers bought with the leaves—all those days are as distant as the stars are from the seas. A time so long gone that, as of present, not even the memories of it remain, but what remains are the memories of days when I reminisced of that ancient time. 

Numerous summers and winters have gone by since I last spent even a single night there. Truly agonizing to me, but alas, little can be done. The home it once was, it simply no longer is. Home is the peace I felt there, the joy that accompanied me, the serenity that forever resided there and perhaps still does, but I am no longer a resident of that home. I have trod paths of age and knowledge, both the nemesis of simplicity, serenity and childlike wonder. A simple home can simply not shelter a complex mind. Simplicity calls for idyllic stagnation; complexity calls for revolutionary progression. 

Perhaps one day, when more years have passed away from my hearth that I spent there, I will be liberated from my vices and emancipated from my follies once I return home. I will go back, lay beneath the shade of old trees, gazing at the wondrous blue sky, cherishing the summer breeze on my aged skin, resting my mangled mind that has been marred from years of toil and thinking. Perhaps I shall even sit on the old rope swings of my childhood, visit the rivers nearby if they remain alive, and walk around and see what has changed in my years of absence and if anything remains untouched at all.

How ironic would it be if, at the place of my old hearth, I would pine for the days of today, these days of youth and manhood, of friendship, of bursting opportunities, of love, of romance, of pondering, of melancholy, of joy and of sorrow, for all that made me human. The vices that defined me would perhaps not accompany me there, but that is a sacrifice I must make, at the very least I shall have the memories of my vices as I breathe my last at the place of my forever hearth. 

By Aranya Mandal