Not a House, But a Home
Some walls shelter us. Others raise us.
Growing up, I never really knew what a permanent house felt like.
Since I was born, we’ve lived in rented homes. I’ve lost count now, but we’ve changed houses at least ten times.
So for me, it was never just one roof that sheltered me—there were many.
Many houses know my story.
Many walls have heard my quiet cries.
Many floors have felt the weight of my frustration.
Many windows have caught my random smiles.
Many doors have seen me laugh like nothing's wrong.
And no, it’s not just those three steps outside that saw me fall—there are many.
I never had that one corner people talk about—their childhood, the place they run to when life feels heavy. Because every time I found mine, we moved.
New house. New neighborhood. New adjustments.
And it always took me at least four months to sleep properly… to feel like, “Okay, maybe this is home now.”
But deep down, it never was.
It was just a house—not my home.
Then someone asked me, “Where’s your home?”
I never said, “Oh, I live in a rented house.”
I just smiled and pointed to the current address.
Because no matter how many houses changed, one thing stayed the same—my maa.
In all the chaos, all the shifting, all the unfamiliar walls—she was my constant.
My soft corner in every house.
My safe space. My calm.
The one fixed point when everything else felt temporary.
On sleepless nights, when I didn’t know how to calm my mind, she’d hold me and say,
“It’s okay. One day, we’ll have our own home.”
And I believed her.
But maybe she didn’t realize—she had already given me a home.
It wasn’t made of bricks or painted walls.
It was her.
Her voice. Her energy. Her presence. Her hope.
She walked into every new space with a bag in one hand—and hope in the other.
And somehow, within hours, even the emptiest place felt warmer.
She never once complained—not about the small houses, or the leaky ceilings, or how many times we had to start over.
It was me who complained.
“This room is too small.”
“There’s no sunlight.”
“This doesn’t feel like home.”
And every time, she just smiled and said,
“One day, build your own house just the way you want it.”
But now I know—she had already shown me what a home really is.
She re-rooted love again and again.
Every temporary place felt a little permanent.
Every cracked wall felt like it was holding us up.
Every empty shelf looked like it was waiting for our memories.
There was always a puja corner.
Even if the house was tiny, she’d carve out a space for her gods.
Not too grand. Not too decorated.
Just a shelf. A diya. A hope.
And when she sat down to pray,
I swear even the gods must have paused to listen.
She sang while cooking.
Fought with me like a child.
Chased me with a slipper one minute, and fed me with her hands the next.
Only maa can do that—love and scold, cry and laugh—all in the same breath.
Even the universe noticed her.
Cows, dogs, birds—they all responded to her.
It was as if the world itself could feel her warmth.
Maybe that’s why they say,
“God couldn’t be everywhere, so he made mothers.”
But I think even God must have bowed to her.
And maa… I will.
I’ll build my dream house one day.
A house with strong walls—but softer hearts.
A place full of light—and the smell of your food.
A corner for your gods—and a room just for you.
You gave me life.
I’ll give you a place you’ll never have to leave.
But no matter how beautiful it is,
you will always be my home.
Before you close this tab…
Call your maa. Or your appa. Or your sibling.
Or that one person who once made a rented house feel like home.
Say thank you.
Say sorry.
Say come home.
Because some homes have doors.
But the real ones?
They live inside people.
And they’re still waiting for you to knock.
And if this resonated with your journey,
share it forward.
Maybe it will be the knock someone else needed to come home.
I'd love to hear from you:
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What does home mean to you?
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Who is the one person that made every place feel safe?
Drop a comment below or write to me.
Let’s make this space not just about houses—but about hearts.
🩷
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