Building a Home Between Two Worlds

Knock! Knock! Knock!

It felt like a vibrating tuning fork had been shoved up to replace my spine. My mind went blank with fear, and my heart began to rev like a car stuck behind the start line, waiting for green. Recovering from the suspension of my existence, I walked to my bedroom door and pulled it open. My house help was standing outside.

“Bhaiya, are you done? I need to clean the bathroom.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t knock that hard!”

I thought I had spoken in a measured tone, but something in my voice made her shrink. Guilt washed away the lingering fear; I loosened what felt like every muscle in my body and tried again.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t like loud knocks. Just knock a little softer next time.”

“It was probably my ring that made the noise. I had knocked softly.”

We both deflected defensively in fear—she defending against the present, and I the past.
I took a deep breath and looked around the living room. It was a bland, square room connected to a large balcony that robbed it of its blandness. There wasn’t much in the living space apart from a sofa and a TV that I hadn’t switched on since I moved here a year ago. My sister had lived here before; she moved to another house closer to our mother. I moved in here—away from her.

It’s funny how that worked out—poetic, even. After my father passed away, my mother leaned heavily on my sister. The two-year-old boy became a houseplant cared for by very responsible owners—well-watered and well-fertilized but largely kept outside the home in the name of sunlight.
You can never ask a child what they need, especially one who has learned to shrink in order to fit. They are unreliable narrators.

The flooring of my apartment—my sister’s former apartment—was grey, as per her choice. It made the colorful cushions on the green sofa stand out. I still hated it. I still hadn’t changed anything in the house since my sister left. If she chose to move back, she would be very comfortable. Although she is far more comfortable in her new home, so she has no reason to move back—I envy all that comfort.

“That’s fine. I’m going to quickly have breakfast and leave. Can you please make sure to lock up once you’re done?”

“Sure, Bhaiya.”

I made my way to the kitchen, taking out oats I had left to soak overnight from the fridge. I had the same breakfast every day. I liked the stability; I could hyper-fixate and have the same meal without getting bored. Grabbing a spoon from a drawer and leaning against the counter, I started to eat as my eyes glazed over.

My mom is a responsible woman. After my dad passed away, she shut off her heart and donned the mask of a responsible woman. Life sometimes makes it very difficult to wear your own face and hold your own heart. Many people morph into ugly things, running away from themselves. The responsible ones don archetypes and masks to perform out of.
I learned to be a responsible man from my mother.

It was a narrow and clean kitchen, largely unused. I noticed that one of the cupboard doors under the sink was hanging off a single hinge again. I set my bowl down on the counter and went to wedge the broken door against the functional one. It seemed like one soldier supporting an injured brother, making sure they reached the end together—whatever that meant.

After making sure the cupboard looked presentable for guests… who never really came, or were invited, I saw a single bowl in the drying rack. Picking it up, I placed it back in the drawer. Staring at all the other vessels in the drawer, I wondered: how long are cooking utensils considered clean? Stored for so long, would I have to clean them again whenever I tried to cook for myself next?
A question I would answer when I actually wanted to cook for myself.

I went back to my oats, quickly finished them, placed my dirty bowl in the sink, and replaced it with the one that had just escaped. Leaving the kitchen, I grabbed my bag, which was leaning against the door, and looked back at my apartment. A long corridor stitched the rooms together—an odd house.

I should stay at home and work. Although, the urge to run away from the place I live in is… almost reflexive for me. It has always been easier to manage my environment when I’m outside; in a fast-paced city, people tend to leave the quiet strangers with empty eyes to their own devices. Living alone now, I don’t need to escape.
I’m not sure when my urge to run away will leave me.

I grew up in an emotionally unsafe house that didn’t understand unsafe minds. Through a large part of my early twenties, I used to sleep in my car during the day. When you struggle with an unsafe mind and need to escape from it for a while, sleeping in a parked car is a good temporary fix.

I feel the need to be defensive here—against myself, of course.
Why didn’t I take better care of myself, or educate myself about how to bring safety to my own mind? I often claw at myself, demanding an answer. The only answer I can hold onto is that survivors are often passive beings. A person thrown into the middle of the ocean doesn’t fight it but gives in and rides the currents, finding pockets of space to gasp for air.

Afternoons sleeping in my car used to be my space to gasp for air. I guess that’s why I feel safest in transit. I’m no longer in the place I was, nor have I reached the place I am aiming to go. So, clutching my bag, I did the safest thing I knew how to do—I left my apartment.

Though, for the past year, I wasn’t escaping—I was just existing.
A lot can change when a person is allowed to exist freely.
Shuffling between the outside world and the inside, I was learning to build a home between the two.