We recently
shifted out of a house we had been leasing for the last eight months. In the
days and months leading up to the event, we debated the pros and cons of the
decision heavily using cost-benefit theories, emotionally charged arguments,
and when we were in a mood to tick each other off – excel sheets and bar graphs
too. Finally the call to move to a new apartment was made, not because the pros
outweighed the cons but because we had to justify all that time we had spent
even contemplating the idea.
We are not
new to the concept of packing bags, my wife and I. Apart from the hollow threats
we have made to each other occasionally, we have actually packed bags between properties eight times in the last
five years. Some of these were necessitated by circumstances relating to work
and comfort in commute, while a few pertained to general betterment of
lifestyle and other intangible benefits. One common factor across all of them,
besides the laundry list of to-dos they have entailed, has been the emotional
conflict they have effected – between the memories of the past and the promises
of the future.
The
wistfulness hits me in instalments. It begins when I bring out the first dusty
suitcase from the attic, then a little more when I empty the first closet into
that first suitcase. Over the next few days, the rooms begin to look bare. The
safety gate that had been set up on the staircase to guard our baby against a
fall is now taken off. Down with the wife’s paintings and the family
photograph. The dents left in the walls are carefully sealed and painted so the
owner is reassured the house is still his own. Then one day, the truck arrives.
All our belongings are shoved into its belly within minutes; the truck rentals
are at a premium and time is of essence. We cannot care less about the odd
trinket left behind in a drawer that was not attended to. It could have been
anything – a little gift from our friends at our housewarming party, the
remnants of a paper plane we entertained our son with, or a valuable household
tool that will no longer be ours. We will realize its value once we acknowledge
its absence. The family stuffs itself into the car and drives out of the porch,
leaving behind had given the very house that had given it a home.
As we
settle into our new surroundings, listlessly pinching at layers of bubble wrap
coming off our couch, we admit the new house has all we could ask for –
friendly neighbours, quality amenities, a nearby convenience store. What does
it have that the earlier one did not? Our minds churn out answers that are
contentious if not entirely dismissible. Change is inevitable. So is the
longing to snatch back the memories of the time we have just renounced on the
dotted line. Our little boy who is busy parading around the house looking for
that familiar sliding door he used to play with, does not understand what a
dotted line is anyway. It does not matter. He will not grow up to remember what
the previous place looked like. We will always remember though, that it was the
place he had first learnt to walk, where we had hidden under a table to give
him his first hearty laugh, the one with the carpet that had absorbed his first
fall. That house did have a few features after all, that the new one never
will.
Nostalgia
has its ways of overpowering you, then wearing off you as does a fad, and then
resurging when you need it the least. I suddenly realize there was more than
just that tiny trinket we left behind. There are a few important things we must
reclaim, and so I put in a request to the property agent to let me in one last
time. I wait patiently for his approval so I can enter the premise that was
once ours. He meets me at the appointed time. He turns in the key and lets me
in, then puts up two open palms in the air indicating ten minutes are all I
have.
I do not
wish to give myself extra time either. The longer I stay, the emptier I shall
feel. However I cannot help but notice the gloss on the otherwise bare walls,
the carpet that has been steam-cleaned because of which my shoes must be left
on the foyer, the autumn leaves that have been cleaned off the backyard, and
most strikingly – the FOR LEASE pin-up on a standee in the front lawns. I stop
to glance at the French window, of which our earliest opinion had been that we
could have lived with a much better design.
It is still
the same French window. Somehow it looks so much better now.
I return to
the new house that is now home. The bags have been unpacked, the bubble wrap
has been discarded, dinner is laid, and the television is on. It is business as
usual, at merely a new address. We learn that change is inevitable, indeed, and
that memories are best left vaulted in photo albums. It is decided that we will
frequent our previous suburb occasionally, take walks in those old lanes, and
certainly go to that cafe in the adjacent street that few others had chanced
upon. We are a little fatigued from all the shifting business, but we will do
this soon.
The
soon comes much later than we had thought.
But we go
for sure. When we drive into that old lane that led to our house, we are overwhelmed
by what we see. Look son, do you remember that brick house in the corner? Yes,
the one opposite which was that park with a slope you used to roll over – hey,
wait. The grass in the front lawns looks burnt. A basketball stand has been put
up near the door. The French window is gone. Instead stands a less attractive
wooden gate. A bowl that used to lie filled with water in the porch, so our
son’s favourite parakeet could come sit for a while, is gone too. Some of its
debris seems to stick out of the mud in the lawns. That is all there is to it.
As we
retreat with a sigh, our former neighbours emerge on to the street and greet us
with surprise. We ask them how they have been. Same old! Comes the reply.
Everything in the neighbourhood really is the same old, as it always was.
It turns
out we were the only transients in that sub-universe that stayed constant. We
must leave now, for we feel like misfits. And we thought we had left that house.
