At Home

The plants have been potted. The crockery shelf has been filled up with china and glassware. A 60 x 60 canvas replication of Frida Kahlo's Las Dos Fridas rests at the back of the shelf. Two Fridas holding hands, hearts bleeding. The yellow palms, stand tall and let out their green arms in all directions. The white petal anthurium is the only one that needs a bit of help. She looks a bit dried out and tired. The tiles have been mopped, and the blinds drawn up. The spring night is just at the right warmth, and the bottle of oil sits atop the tiny green side table in my balcony. 

Its been a year, since I moved in. The south west room is now all of mine. I haven't been able to fit in the teak wood writing desk into it though. And now it doesn't matter because its been shifted to my studio.

The maid now serves dinner in the china when she thinks I am expecting guests and often tells me where she's hidden the ladles and all. 

I've come to love this place more than I did a few months ago. It protects me from everything, and makes me feel safe. When I have a bad day at work, the soothing part of it is when I step onto the threshold. The house takes me into a neat gleamy space, full of love. I suspect she even talks to me, and tells me what she thinks. Nowadays she even smiles at me approvingly. The fears go away, and I after years of having the traveler's remorse, is now back at the place I can now call home. And no I ain't schizophrenic.