My First Home

My First Home

by Vijay Sharma Erry

I was only eight years old when I first saw that small house. We were walking along the dusty village path. My father’s hand held mine tightly, and my mother carried an old bedroll on her shoulder. The three of us stood in front of the house made of crude bricks. A rusty latch hung on the door. Father said softly, “Son, this is our first home.”

Those words filled my ears with a strange warmth. Before that day we had always lived in rented rooms—sometimes in a small storeroom behind my uncle’s house, sometimes in a temporary room on the roof of my father’s friend’s house. We always had to leave eventually. But that day, for the first time, Father used the word “our.”

The house had two rooms. One served as both kitchen and sitting room; the other was for sleeping. The roof was unfinished, the walls showed damp patches, and in the courtyard stood an old neem tree whose roots had reached the wall. Yet to me that house was no less than a palace. On the first night, when I lay in that room looking at the ceiling, I felt as if even the stars had become ours.

Father worked as a porter at the railway station. He left at four in the morning and returned at ten at night. Mother managed the house. She cut vegetables, baked rotis, and in between sat under the neem tree correcting my schoolbooks. School was far—three kilometres on foot. In the rains we sank into mud; in the heat we were soaked in sweat. But the moment I returned and saw Mother’s face, all tiredness vanished.

Our neighbour was Ramu Chacha. He ran a small shop that sold bidis, matchboxes, and sometimes toffees. Ramu Chacha was very fond of me. He would say, “Arre Vijay, you will study and become a big man. Then come back to this lane and remember us.” I would smile and say yes, but inside I was afraid I might one day forget this house.

One day Father fell ill. Fever rose and he could not get out of bed for three days. Mother sold all her jewellery. There was a small gold chain that had been Grandmother’s keepsake. Mother quietly took it out and placed it in Ramu Chacha’s hand. That evening, when medicine reached Father, tears stood in Mother’s eyes—but there was also a smile. That night I understood for the first time that a home is not made only of walls. A home is the place where people silently give everything for one another.

Winter came. Water began dripping from the roof. Father brought old tin sheets and spread them on top. At night the sound of raindrops on the tin felt like music. Father and I would lie together and he would tell stories. His voice carried fatigue, but the stories held magic. He would say, “Son, one day we will build a proper house. There will be a solid roof above, a floor below, and sunlight will come through the windows.” Listening to him, I began to dream.

In school I had a friend named Sunil. His father had a government job. Their house was pucca, with large rooms and flowers blooming in the courtyard. One day Sunil said to me, “Your house is very small, isn’t it?” I stayed silent. That evening I sat under the neem tree for a long time and thought. Then I went to Mother and asked, “Amma, is our house really small?” She stroked my head and said, “The size of a home is not measured by walls, but by the heart. Our house may be small, but the love inside it is very large.”

After that day I never thought of our house as small.

Years passed. I reached the tenth class. Father’s back had begun to bend. He could no longer lift heavy loads as before. One day at the station a load fell and his foot twisted. The doctor said, “You must stop heavy work now.” Father remained quiet. That evening he came home and told Mother, “Now we will have to think of something else.”

Mother made a decision. She created a small cooking space in the courtyard and took a contract to teach sewing to the women of the neighbourhood. Slowly, sewing machines appeared in the courtyard. Under the neem tree the women sat talking, laughing, and stitching. Voices began to fill the house again.

After finishing the twelfth class I left for the city. I got admission in college. The first time I left home, the neem tree seemed to bid me farewell. Its leaves rustled in the wind. Mother packed a small bag for me and placed a handful of the house’s soil inside it. She said, “Take this. Wherever you live, it will remind you where your roots are.”

City life was different—crowds, noise, hurry. The hostel room was small, but the loneliness inside it was large. At night when I lay down, I remembered the sound of rain on the tin roof. Sometimes I even felt the fragrance of the neem tree.

Three years later, when I returned home with my first job, the house had changed. Father had slowly saved money and made the roof pucca. Fresh plaster covered the walls. In the courtyard there were no longer only sewing machines; a few flower pots had appeared as well. Mother hugged me and said, “See, your father has fulfilled the dream.” Father smiled. Pride shone in his eyes.

With my first salary I bought a small almirah and placed it in the house. Mother arranged her sarees in it. Father said, “Now the house feels complete.”

Time began to move even faster. I settled in the city. I got married. My wife and children came. We bought a flat—three bedrooms, with a lift and a garden. Modern facilities were there. Yet sometimes at night, when the children were asleep, I would stand on the balcony and look towards the village. A strange emptiness would rise in my heart.

One day my wife asked, “Why do you become so quiet so often?” I told her about my first home—the neem tree, the tin roof, Mother’s smile, Father’s tired voice. She held my hand and said, “Let’s go there once.”

We reached the village. The house had changed even more. Father and Mother were no longer there. But the neem tree still stood—taller, more full of shade. My cousin now lived in the house. He put us up in the old room.

That night when I lay in that room, the roof was pucca now, but the memories were the same. The air carried the scent of neem. Outside, children’s laughter could be heard. I closed my eyes and felt that a home never lives only in walls. A home lives in the heart.

In the morning I sat under the neem tree and touched the soil. The same soil Mother had once placed in my bag. I picked up a handful and put it in my pocket.

While returning to the city the children asked, “Papa, what was your first home like?”

I told them—two rooms, an unfinished roof, a neem tree, and a great deal of love.

The children said, “We want to live there too.”

I smiled.

Today, when I stand on the balcony of my modern flat, I sometimes feel that the real home was that one—where the walls were marked with damp, but the hearts were clean. Where money was little, but dreams were large. Where every breath carried struggle, but every breath also carried hope.

My first home was not merely a house. It was my roots. It was my identity. It was the place where I learned that love is larger than walls, and a home is built from the heart.

Even now, when the wind blows, I feel the leaves of the neem tree rustling, and Father’s voice saying, “Son, this is our first home.”

And I answer, “Father, this will always remain our home.”