Weaving Tapestries, Painting Pictures, Dreaming Dreams

The perfectly sound building we live in has been marked for demolition as the present owners wish to go vertical and we have till the end of this month to wrap up and pack memories of 22 years. Memories of my children’s childhood, playing games, parties, sleepovers, sibling squabbles, watching art and science programs interspersed with Disney. Memories of the bedroom floor spread with train sets, supermarkets, toy castles, a big barn and even a hotel, though all the pretty toys would pale before the potential of an empty card box that could be a tent in the wilderness, a farmhouse, a ship sailing in the high seas, a speeding race car or anything their imagination wished. Memories of books spilling over everywhere. Memories of their turning into teens, then adults, always fun, always warm and loving and ready for hugs, always intelligent, questioning, wise, understanding, hardworking.

Memories of my youth, of being a wife, a mother, of shared love and warmth and millions of hugs. Memories of sharing, listening and speaking. Memories of growing,  becoming a fair cook, entertaining friends, hosting friends and relatives, becoming a writer, a poet, a photographer, a traveller. Memories of happy days and sad ones. One by one I pack them, there isn’t much time to look at each one, I have to put everything away, we leave on Friday, the demolition will begin on Saturday. Even when the girls and I had moved to India in 2006 for 4 years my husband had held on to this apartment. He would welcome us each time with a huge bouquet of flowers saying “Welcome home Girls’ there would be single roses on our pillows and chocolates.

We will miss this apartment, it is more spacious than our new one but that is not the only reason we were loved here. We loved it and it loved us back.

So here we are; its the last day but one before we leave. For me it is a poignant moment and I wish to record it so I will remember it. The windows are open, the cool late March breeze is blowing, there are sounds of traffic outside to which I am mostly oblivious, everyone is in a frenzy packing, moving, making sure all we owned and treasure reaches its next destination safely. So far only my heart has broken. Why am I so sad? Our new house is smaller than this no doubt but it can be made into a good home. My children’s room has been cleared, I am sitting here on a plastic chair on the freshly vacuumed carpet, my most profound memories are of them sitting on the ground, by the bed and playing. My heart constricts and chokes me. I forget that these are just walls of a building, the real memory is held by the walls of my heart. I take time to write this, take time to breathe in, to fill my heart with the aura of my children that these walls have absorbed over the years. I remember sitting on the bed and reading the Ancient Mariner or Tagore’s Gitanjali to my little one, who though she couldn’t understand much, enjoyed listening to their sounds. I remember reading Macbeth out to her though just the abridged version.

How many friends we have entertained here, these walls still too young and sturdy to be knocked down, have seen love and warmth, laughter and song, listened to long and passionate discussions on many topics. The fun, the laughter, the pain the tears, the knowledge, the wisdom, the long flights of imagination, all came from us, from who we are  not from these walls,  but these walls held not only our bodies but absorbed within their bricks and cement the very essence of who we were and who we grew to become, perhaps that is why tearing ourselves away is such a wrench. The new apartment has less room compared to this generously proportioned place, our furniture is spilling over and many pieces have no place to fit into. Men started by caging birds and animals but now they wish to cage the whole of humanity in tiny spaces where neither can one breathe freely nor catch a glimpse of the sky. But I must add that my new home, though smaller than this one does have a view of sea and sky and I hope it lasts.