My home is tucked in the middle of trees and flowers that my mother has lovingly planted for years. It’s a small pink Bungalow which has seen its children play in the mud, cycling in front of it, making wonderful memories and finally growing up. It has seen changing seasons, the torment of continuous rain, fluctuating weather and still stood tall. My mother keeps on adding exotic flowers to her collection of beauties and makes my home even prettier.
Inside, you will find books and plants all around and in every corner of the house. There are books of literature, poems, philosophy, education, sociology, science, law, music and so on. A person with a healthy reading habit can happily hibernate in my home for years. My father is a hoarder of books, so am I and we don’t believe in giving away books. You will find books from Nursery till Graduation and books ranging from fairy tales, Harry Potter, Agatha Christie, Jane Austen, Murakami and many more, carefully kept.
The décor of the house is mostly a mixed effort of my sister’s eye for beautiful objects and my annoying cleanliness regime. My sister has a penchant for picking up chic pieces of home ornamentation from all around the world and place it at a precise position in the house to make it bloom further. The tiles, the curtains, the paintings on the wall, the color and the energy is all her. The house breathes with her thoughtful attentions.
My home is cluttered with music instruments and old Odiya songs either played or sung by my parents. The harmonium consistently open and ready for riyaaz. Apart from all that, there is always someone cooking something in our kitchen. The smell of chai wafting around, the aroma of delectable Odia cuisine sizzling the place up, which leaves a person hungry for more.
In this beautiful place where thirst of knowledge is awarded, lively discussions about education and music is given preference and where chai, pakoda and cricket play hand in hand, is where my heart shall always live.
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