Outside of the home, Where You’re Not Constantly Doted Upon
Life is abundantly filled with spaces, and this one contrasts two of my favourite personal spaces and their inevitable interactions.
As far as my memory goes, I remember being unconditionally loved, adored, and cared for by my parents. I remember being chaperoned to examination centres, friends’ houses, meetup places, and hostels. I remember the sleepless nights that my parents had whenever I fell sick, and I travelled alone. I remember the relentless counsel they provided against my countless idiosyncrasies and whimpering. I remember the minuscule and humongous protective measures and sacrifices for eliciting a look of content and happiness on my face. I remember a little too many things to jot it all down.
Be it a tiny scratch near the pointed right elbow or a life-changing career decision; I could always run to my family for them to clear out an unforeseen path for me. Irrespective of the part of the country we lived in, they perpetually and carefully wove a strong, humble, invisible, impenetrable, and a tending space for both my sibling and me.
In our space, our home, they had solutions to almost all of our woes and cultivated our surroundings such that we were not subjected to the evils of the outside world. Our home has always been a witness to nourishment, growth, and storytelling. A place where we could arm ourselves to face the outside world, and in case we failed, a place that embraced us back wholeheartedly, although with some occasional rants of “I told you so”, “No problem”, and “If I had been at your place…”.
Even though the space provides us with unconditional forgiveness and love, it never really is blinded and would never hesitate to portray the reality of the situations. Both mother and father have their unique ways, but they are an unbreakable team when our welfare is the ultimate goal. They nurture a space for us, where we are doted upon without question. We are the centre of all their attention, and their lives revolve around our whims and wishes. Like any conventional individual, my home is one of my favourite personal spaces — a refuge from the adult outside world.
Home is undeniably alluring, but it is as predictable and slightly different from the life I make for myself, outside as an adult. It is different from reaching destinations on my own with buses, lifts, and cabs. It is different from taking care of myself all alone or sometimes with the help of unrelated friends. It is different from self-counsel and journal entries. It is different from sulking and sniffing the running nose under the mushy blanket. It is different from realisations of overspendings and the oncoming adoption of a thrift lifestyle. Although short-lived.
Maybe it is a lot different from home. When I’m away, perhaps I’m different and consequentially, my personal space for nourishment is different. It is a space where I’m not necessarily doted upon. Where I’m not the star sun but just one star among the sea of the star suns and their sunshine. But who said contrasting things could not result in the same outcome? Both of these lives, how much ever distinguished they are, are enormously fulfilling.
There’s a certain charm in being responsible and reliable, despite the scarce occasions. There’s empowerment in dealing with the miseries on my own and not disclosing impassioned details to family. Between daily chores and grocery shopping, one feels all grown up for a while. Worrying about one’s safety and reaching back into the room on time, without the help of persistent reminders from well-wishers, is like finishing an acclaimed sports race. One might even expect pats and applauses from the forlorn darkroom for the mighty achievement.
Choosing the people to interact with and befriend and confide in is a welcome daily venture. Not just interacting, but owning up to the kind of people one spends time with and confronting their shenanigans head-on gives purported authority over life. This space outside of the home is wildly strenuous, but it is also refreshing with a sense of achievement. For the reason that here I am, the fabricator and the cultivator and the weaver. The star but also the revolving planets.
Alas, the home and the adult life are not wary of each other. They intermittently indulge in sneaky encounters because, after all, they’re not contradictory; they’re complementary. If I stumble and fall in one space, I can always expect comforting hands from the other to catch me and comfort me. If I feel helpless in a place, I can move on to the other to embellish my worth with mounting experiences. Or, when I don’t feel like holding on to the steering wheel of life, I can board a train and run off to be vulnerable, timid, and sniffly. I would know that dear father will be standing with expectant eyes to pick me up irrespective of the ungodly hour I arrive at the station.
Perhaps that’s all there is to life. An alternative cycle of leaving and returning, of resilience and vulnerabilities, of proud moments and sniffles, of wide-armed adventures and cuddly embraces, of being protected to becoming the protector, and of being the one doted upon to being just one among the many.
