House Hunting

At the age of 25, the sense of disillusionment with one’s own self is real. So, I was disappointed when the lousy landlord did not wish to extend my lease and asked me to vacate the flat within a week. His son, who earns in dollars, was coming back soon to inhabit the pigeonhole of a place. The smudge on the wall needed to be painted, faulty plumbing repaired and the nuisances of ownership shifted. The baggage of someone’s existence had to be replaced by another set.

As I puttered around my room, sat stiffly on my mattress and surveyed the room, its cheap mosaic floor, the ramshackle bookshelf and cupboard and the arcane dressing unit, all that had become my own, an inexplicable sadness drowned me. It was the sort of place that had shown me the path to independence of mind and character with its exclusionary nature. Even the quotidian extravagances of daily life, which included making my bed and doing the chores were pleasurable because it was there I met with my lost self. Since at my age the sense of self is often blurred, my decision to stay alone in this house for the first time was for both good and bad.

A house broker from the neighbourhood, who is an agent and a part of a big network of real estate chains, consoled me, grinned his lopsided Shah Rukh Khan smile and said, “Don’t worry. Such small things happen in big cities. I will get you the best place within your budget.”

Over the days, I came to terms with my transient state. The cold gaze and unfriendly welcome of landlords did not bother me anymore. I started looking at each home stay as the accustomed rituals and formalities of arrival and departure. Each visit gave way to a larger journey. I was prepared to arrive and go, welcome a temporary imagined future and greet a new identity each time. And in that transition, in between two homes, I learnt to get liberated from the uncomfortable truth that the time would soon come to end the trip.

Meghna Maiti