Homes You Don’t Live in Anymore

Flickers. Blurred Memories. And so many reasons to remember.

I always thought the weirdest thing about me was that I read too many murder mysteries. Specifically, that I hoard Agatha Christie novels like I’m preparing for a crime so supremely unsolvable, it would put Hercule Poirot to shame. One day, I’ll be laughing at the makers of Unsolved Mysteries. But no, that’s not it.

The real weird thing? It’s something my 18-year-old brother would be embarrassed about—and he’s the weirdest creature I know.

Now, we’re all guilty of stalking people. I’m publicly declaring that about myself—not to seek redemption, per se, but just because I want to. Hey! You’re here on my blog, how about that? Oh, I invited you to read this? Stay on. I’m otherwise a decent fellow. Laughs nervously.

But for the sake of literary glamour, can we not call it stalking? Let’s say: my keen pursuit of seeing how people are doing, or cheering them on from the sidelines… very quietly… and with full Wi-Fi/4G data that runs at 3G at best.

I can’t help it. I’m a committed observer of human flourishing.

Plus, I’ve been doing “you-should-take-it-as-a-compliment-that-I’m-talking-to-everyone-here-but-you” for as long as Taylor Swift. And she’s a billionaire now.

My social media recces are uninvited, unsolicited, and mostly unfruitful (because half these people have private accounts—ugh). Okay, this is supposed to be funny, not Joe Goldberg in italics. But I miss people.

And I miss them the way tenants must miss rented homes. 

For a time, it was home. Just not theirs to keep. There were rainy nights when the electricity went out and the only light came from a windowpane scattered with raindrops. A leaky wall that became your little secret with the other tenants. Your cat’s first birthday celebrated there. And the heartbreak when it left you—for another cat in the society. You planted jasmine on the ledge. You poured water accidentally on someone’s head while watching your crush walk out the gate. You learnt to cook there, called your people over for a meal. 

All while knowing, someday, the boxes would be packed. A door would shut. Footsteps would bid their final goodbye. 

You’d move into another house—a house in name. Maybe it’s better: a beach view, more space. Maybe worse: loud neighbours, a landlord too suspicious to function, bad vaastu. But you will still remember the other houses, their little imperfections, that there were reasons that made you leave, but there were also reasons that made you stay. And there is no chance that you don't miss that.

You keep changing houses—changing, changing—till you find one. With a permanent roommate. Or one you made for yourself. Where you’ll witness first steps. A baby’s. A pet’s. Or the first piece of furniture you buy from IKEA.

And you’ll think of all the people you welcomed in your past homes.

The first love. The last one.

The friend who moved overseas.

The girl it fizzled out with.

The boy you never texted back after a spat.

The bespectacled benchmate you haven’t heard from since college.

Some are flourishing in their careers. Some changed theirs. Some seem to be traveling a lot—good for them. Some are nowhere to be found, like they never left a digital fingerprint. But for each of them, there is a flicker in my heart, that makes me a teensy bit curious. That I some times envy their nonchalance, or busy schedules, or how they simply never looked back. 

I’ve always said: people are houses. And I was someone’s rented house too. Some probably really enjoyed their stay. Some count their blessings to have moved on.

A few months ago, I wrote something about people holding pieces of us, pieces you wish you could ask back. It’s still true. But I’d add something now: they won’t return those pieces.

Not because they’re holding them hostage. But because those pieces give them an excuse to remember you— after tucking you into a far-off corner, long enough to forget, until you poke out again, like a loose thread in memory’s old sweater. And then it takes one search to see your smiling face again. And maybe stings somewhere, but hey, smiles like yawns can be quite contagious. 

You’ve lived a million days but don’t have a million minutes to sit with all you’ve lived, loved, and left. You forget—only to remember again. And again.

Omar Khayyam once said, heaven and hell are both within. Grief and love? They’re just the same.

P.S.: 

Okay, maybe I put my foot in my mouth about the stalking thing. It’s not that much. Sometimes I also scroll through backed-up photos from 2012. Okay bye. Runs away like that’s not weird at all.