My phone pinged at my bedside table. I had just begun dozing off and my brain barked at me to forget it. My hand must have got the wrong signal though, as it reached out and grabbed the phone. Tapping on the notification that said ‘Bro Jio’, my half open eyes caught an image. Within a second, I had half a million memories flooding my mind.

Those dirty floors and walls were my luxury once.

Yeah, maybe not what you expected, but those windows and door frames have seen so much that I believe they are alive and have countless memories stored in them.

The year was 2004 when we moved in to our very own house – me, my kid brother, mom and dad. We were sifting through cities and metros, relocating constantly until then. It wasn’t a readily built one. It was only a clean piece of land when we first met. Then the workers came, the digging and the fixing began. I distinctly remember when the ceiling was made and scaffolded out to dry. It was then the 10 year old me had exclaimed, “Wow, it’s a house!”. It was all done within the next month and the house dazzled, the morning of our housewarming. Decorated doorways, mango leaves and lemon strings, rows of string lights and one huge rangoli sent out incredible vibes all over. We performed the auspicious ‘griha pravesh’ puja and settled in. The house became a home. We planted various trees in the garden and they stood through it all, tall and unwavering. I fondly remember all the countless number of times we took shelter under them, rain or sun. When cousins come over, we would run berserk around the house, playing catch. On weekend nights, the open terrace was our own private rooftop candlelight restaurant. Every inch of our home, we loved.

Ten whole years rolled by, and we all had to move out for various reasons. Fast forward another ten years, my parents are now set to move back in. My brother helps them with the renovation and I yearn to be back, in my childhood haven.