A Home of Dreams… A Home of Reality…

How many homes can one person have? My first was in a childhood village. A sprawling, tiled-roof house, rooted in the earth, bustling with family. In those days, the very soil of people’s hearts was soft, full of affection. Even the earth in our courtyard would play with our hands and feet. The first time I witnessed what it means to be a ‘refugee’ was in the tears of my aunt as she left for a stranger's house in another village after her wedding. As she left her —her maternal home—she gazed at every nook and cranny with tear-filled eyes, imprinting the windows and doors onto her memory. She picked up the , a patchwork quilt stitched from our grandmother's old sarees, clutched it to her chest, and began to sob. “I’m taking this quilt with me,” she said, “the silken touch of Aaji’s love is woven into it…” At that moment, the house without my beloved, smiling aunt suddenly seemed grotesque to me. I was too young then to understand the inevitability of a girl being uprooted from her native soil to plant new roots in another’s home, all within the patriarchal institution of marriage. I was just a child. But in that moment, I understood that when I got married, my home would change too. This realization, this ‘wisdom of being a girl,’ began to strengthen my shoulders prematurely. As time went on, the forms and shapes of home continued to morph. Its pillars stood stunned, punctuated by exclamation points and question marks. When our joint family split, the house—suddenly empty of my uncle, aunt, grandparents, and cousins—felt hollow and descended upon me. It orphaned me. It was my Aaji (grandmother) who would sing me lullabies to sleep. It was my Ajoba (grandfather) who would tell me stories as we sat on the swing at night. When they moved to another house, my house of songs and stories was lost. Aaji went far away, taking the melodies with her. Ajoba went far away, taking the magic of his tales. Our home became empty and sad for me. But there was an upside. My father was transferred, which meant a new town and a new house. My mind learned to adapt. A sense of acceptance seeped into my very being. Yet, the riddle of ‘home’ was never solved. It constantly peeks into my poetry, as if my creativity has found its own well-equipped delivery room. Can a frame be constricting? It must be. My aunt used to say something like that. She was overjoyed when she left her home. Today, I think I’ve begun to understand that riddle, just a little. As I grew older, homes began to feel more mature. As I saw the world with open eyes, the words of the great poet-saint Dnyaneshwar, (The world itself is my home), struck me with different meanings. When I moved to the city for higher education, I initially loved my new surroundings and the new home within them, for it was woven with the butterfly-winged dreams of youth. As life ripened, the colors, forms, and sizes of homes changed. Sometimes, while experiencing the world, the world itself would arrive at my doorstep. Other times, the world made me wander from door to door. This wandering taught me to look at the homes around me with a different, more inquisitive eye. Homes nearby, far away, of relatives, of strangers, of friends, of enemies, in paintings, in photographs, in imagination, in films…! So many homes! A universe of them! The grand and forgotten mansions in films, the deserted ancestral homes, haunted bungalows, and ruined shelters—these places feel terrifying due to their mysterious, spectral, and wondrous atmospheres. It feels as though the literary elements of wonder and terror have come to stay there. One doesn’t feel like living in such desolate structures. They feel like museum exhibits, carrying the weight of history, best viewed from a distance. Back in my village of Narayangaon, there were such virtual, illusory homes. They probably still exist. On Saturdays, a weekly market would set up in the grounds outside the Viththal temple on Junnar road. Going there with my parents was a great pastime. In the market, certain hut-like homes, which were otherwise unnoticeable, would suddenly seem to sprout from the ground. That’s because you could get a drink of water there, drawn from large earthen pots buried in the ground in their yards. On days when the market wasn't there, you wouldn't even see those huts. They were there, of course. But they didn’t register in your eyes. These homes, which came into existence for a reason and then vanished as if erased with a rubber, still float across the canvas of my mind. Behind the Kalbhairav temple, on a desolate plateau outside the village, stood a dilapidated (a charitable shelter). It was rarely visited. We children would look at it with great curiosity. We even resolved to go inside once or twice, but the ghost stories that circulated in the region robbed us of our courage. One day, a friend brought sensational news: she had seen a red saree drying on a bush outside the shelter. That was it! After school, we made up some excuse and went to see this red saree. Our hearts pounded just looking at it from a distance. Another time, a friend saw smoke rising from the tiles of the roof. Some traveler must have been cooking a meal. But to our childish minds, even that smoke transported us into the atmosphere of a virtual horror story. Though it was a house of stone, brick, and tile, to us, it always felt illusory. We would stammer while telling each other stories about that terrifying house, because its image was etched in our minds as something mysterious and spectral. Some homes also appear in dreams. Houses seen or heard about somewhere suddenly manifest in a dream, and for a few moments, we are connected to them. Once, in a dawn dream, I was watching the sunset from the terrace of a grand stone bungalow. I was all alone. When the sun went down, I turned to go downstairs, but the house had no staircase! I looked down in shock only to find the house itself was bobbing in the sea! What a terrifying dream! What was this virtual world? What were these illusions of the subconscious mind? What embers of unfulfilled desires were these? I couldn't understand any of it. But one thing is certain: I have a deep fascination for stone houses, and this must have been a manifestation of that. Finally, the pink fog of the dream slowly dissipated, and before me appeared a photograph of our joint family. Twenty-two of us, all fitted into that one frame, a photo we had insisted on taking at my brother's wedding. Why did I see this photo at the very end of my dream? Recently, I visited Shyamala Mavshi. She is my chosen aunt. Sometimes, relationships we choose are closer to our hearts than those of blood. These bonds are unconditional and therefore always feel fresh. Mavshi and I get along wonderfully because in her house, I can be myself. Her son, Arnav, went abroad for a job and made it his home. He bought a house there and married a local girl. Mavshi visited twice, staying for six months each time. She saw the sights, lived the "American dream." She saw the diversity of the world. Her son keeps inviting her, but nowadays, she doesn't feel like going. She feels better here, in her motherland. She began to feel that "a mother's hut is her dearest." So, Mavshi never renewed her visa. The passport renewal was forgotten. And now, there’s the new American administration's hostile policies towards Indians. But Mavshi has built a home for her son in her mind. Whenever I visit, she eagerly shows me the photographs of her son's beautiful house abroad. The expensive furniture, the modern kitchen, the ever-lit —the fireplace lit to ward off the cold. She tells me, in a mock-annoyed tone, why she re-washes the dishes that come out of the dishwasher. She tells me, swallowing a lump in her throat, how you don’t see people for a week, how you don’t hear the Marathi language. She finds the snow-covered houses and the materialistic lives of the people there… interesting. But they don't feel close to her heart. She tells me stories of their cleanliness and strict laws, of the gushing, clean rivers. But now, all of this remains in her imagination. It remains in a dream. That day, Mavshi lit a lamp before the gods as usual. She lit a special incense stick. "This is Arnav's favorite—sandalwood," she said. "Come, let's talk to Arnav now." I agreed enthusiastically. "Not on the phone, I'll start the laptop. We'll be able to see everything clearly and bigger." Mavshi turned on the webcam, and just like that, we were talking to Arnav in America. We chatted for a long time. All the while, we could see Arnav’s beautiful foreign home. I was taking in every detail with my eyes. It was a very high-fi, modern house. The color scheme, the furniture, the objects—everything reflected a high degree of taste. We could see Arnav's face clearly, reading his expressions as if he were right there, thanks to the close-up. I noticed that some of the hair near his ears had turned golden-white. It happens, of course! The illusions of age.

For a moment, I felt as if Arnav was sitting right in front of us in a chair. Such intimacy—on a virtual screen! It felt as if Mavshi would now take his hand in hers or lovingly stroke his back. Once or twice, Mavshi's voice trembled, and I noticed Arnav's eyes welling up too. I was also overcome with emotion. Arnav's fair-skinned wife spoke to us in her distinct English accent. Mavshi's little granddaughter also spoke in English. After talking to their heart's content, Mavshi said her goodbyes. Her granddaughter blew her a flying kiss. Mavshi closed the laptop. For a few moments, we both sat in silence. I closed my eyes and began to recall that house… I was lost in it, floating as if in a dream. Mavshi was in a similar state. It was as if we had just taken a stroll through Arnav's house… we had experienced it… wandered through its various rooms… lived in it… moved among its people… we had absorbed it all with our eyes! This is Virtual Reality. Such proximity, yet such a vast distance! An experience of the soul, but a deception of the body. Then Mavshi herself spoke, "It's all virtual, my dear. All of it. It's real, but for me, it's false, isn't it? It's like a fragrance that has slipped through your fist. You can feel it, it lingers, but you can't hold on to any of it…" I managed a faint smile in response. I kept looking at her, the way one might stare meaninglessly at the wisps of incense smoke that you can see but cannot grasp. She continued, "Of course, no one should hold or cage anyone. I never stopped Arnav. I joyfully supported his flight. But I have now understood that his expanding universe and my small world no longer align… but I have accepted this too—with happiness." There was a smile on Mavshi’s face. She had accepted reality with joy. Virtual it may be, but she visits her son's home through the webcam. After making this virtual trip two or three times a week, she lives peacefully here, in her own native home. She has a bond with the soil here, and her son’s life is growing in the soil there. She is completely unconditional. There is no bitterness in her heart. She doesn't waste time measuring the distance of space and time. She believes that it's most important for every person to grow. She has the generosity to accept that everyone has their own sky. And it's not in her nature to sit and nurse her tiny sorrows. Her philosophy seems to be to accept life as it is and to celebrate every moment that comes. What else is a universal consciousness? Virtual homes are deeply rooted in our minds. For our imaginary consumption, they become alive, tangible for a few moments, and then, like incense smoke, they dissolve. Nowadays, I sometimes visit my aunt, the one who was once a ‘refugee.’ She has now matured and become resilient in that new soil. Our old village house no longer exists. A towering school building stands in its place. But even today, when I think of home, I remember that same humble, moon-dusted house. The one with a tin sheet over the veranda. The rain would play a staccato rhythm on it like a drum. Rain would drip into the house through holes in the roof, and through those same holes, the moon, like a dollop of cream, would also peek in. The lines of my own poem constantly hum in my ears— Ashlesha Mahajan.Mobile: 9860387123 Email: ashlesha27mahajan@gmail.com ( This article is the translated version of the original article घर स्वप्नातलं… सत्यातलं… written by Ashlesha Mahajan published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 ) साहित्य चपराक दिवाळी अंक २०२५ घरपोच मागण्यासाठी लिंक: https://shop.chaprak.com/product/diwali-ank-2025/