On Putting Down Roots

My grandmother, my father's mother, is a formidable woman, carved from the raw stuff of endurance. At 94, she has seen more life than most—outliving her parents, her husband, the bulk of her siblings, and even two of her four children, along with a grandson. There’s a certain grit etched in the lines of her face, a stubbornness born not of defiance but of necessity, the kind needed to weather nearly a century's worth of storms. Widowed in her thirties, she bore the burden of raising four teenagers alone, with a strength that defied the odds.

It goes without saying that a person like her would carry a trove of tales, each one more compelling than the last. I find myself drawn to her stories, as they transport me to a world that seems almost unrecognisable in today’s society. It’s been fifty years now since the old house, the one I still call home, was built back in 1974. Back then, my grandmother lived across the street, renting a room with her children. She recalls, with a certain wistfulness, how my father and his sisters and brother watched, day by day, as the house took shape, each brick set in place. They called dibs on rooms that weren’t theirs yet, in a house that belonged to someone else, but in their hearts, it was already home.

The dreams of moving into that house, once little more than fleeting fancies, took root in reality. In the years that followed, the house was bought, my grandmother took up her place within its walls, and everyone found themselves in the rooms their hearts had quietly longed for.

As I step inside, the wall before me bears the stern gaze of an oil portrait of my great-grandfather, reminiscent of those old homes where the patriarch's likeness once presided above the mantelpiece. In that weathered house, beneath a roof that had witnessed the weight of seasons and time, all four of her children found their spouses and futures. The house swelled with life as their families grew, its rooms resonating with the cries of newborns and the laughter of children. And then, just as sure as dawn follows dusk, much of the next generation also got married beneath that same roof. Over the span of half a century, that house has been a quiet witness to no fewer than ten weddings, six births, and four passings. Yet it stands like a lighthouse upon some rocks and waves, guarding the enduring spirit of my grandmother’s resilient Kumaoni blood, holding within its embrace the last of her descendants.

I was among those born within the walls of that old house, spending the first eighteen years of my days there. I remember plucking guavas from the tree in the backyard, chasing squirrels up the old mango tree, and playing catch in the garden with my cousins. Each year, it seemed the house gave way a little more—perhaps a piece of the roof would cave in, the garden swing would fall off its hinges, or the hand pump would run dry, necessitating its closure. Yet every return to that place stirs a torrent of nostalgia within me. Each crack in the wall holds a story of the past.

In my generation, the meaning of a house seems to have slipped away, lost between the lines of ledgers and the cold calculations of worth. It is not just the price of brick and mortar we fail to grasp, but the soul of a home. When our families call us to “come home,” it carries a weight far beyond mere words. We, who were born in the quieter corners of India, often find ourselves drifting to the big cities in search of education, careers, and the promise of a better life. Our lives have become a restless journey, packing up our belongings and moving on before we’ve even unpacked them. We rent spaces where the walls remain strangers, never feeling the warmth of our touch, for we know we won’t linger long enough to make them our own. And yet, we are fortunate to have experienced the security and stability once afforded to us by our home—a house that once held us close, a house that still stands, should we ever choose to return.

As I stand on the brink of buying a place to call my own, I recognize a truth about my generation: most of us will likely live in apartments, especially if we make our lives in the sprawling cities. The cost of owning a house has climbed beyond reach, an echo of the old dream now blurred by the haze of rising prices. It is the success of those who came before me that has provided the stability and shelter I’ve known. I dream of the day when I might return that gift, passing on to my children, and perhaps to their children, the same strength and security that was once bestowed upon me, if fortune permits me to follow in the footsteps of those who came before.

““Land is the only thing in the world that amounts to anything,” he shouted, his thick, short arms making wide gestures of indignation, “for ‘tis the only thing in this world that lasts, and don’t you be forgetting it! ‘Tis the only thing worth working for, worth fighting for–worth dying for.” - Gone With the Wind, Margaret Mitchell.