There will be paintings on the wall, filled with my palms and fingers in all colours bright and dark. There will be photographs of appa with his perfect nose and teeth grin, amma’s tight lipped smile because she does not like it when her teeth show. Ajji will stand along with them, looking at the camera like it was unacceptable that it pulled her away while she was preparing the best poha in the world. There will be friends in the photographs, because they chose to be more than their fundamental annoying selves. The number of pictures will grow as times pass but the wall will stay purple. Faded purple like someone thought the night sky would look better with a shade of white all over it. It will be filled with dream catchers because my dreams bring in their own set of luggage and start spinning cobwebs with them.
There will be mosquito nets around the beds, white ones with barely enough holes for air to pass through. I would sit inside and imagine all the stories amma told about her grandpa. He was an architect who designed a school in Mysore. He also wore a black muffler with invisible stripes on it when he was 88. He would drape it around amma when she was cold. The light bulb rays would struggle to lighten up the sentences on my books and I would walk out to the balcony and read under the purple sky and the white moon.
There will be two chairs and lots of blankets made from bits of old, red and white t-shirts. The kitchen, the living room and its tiles would tell me stories of how they were unfortunate than most other tiles to have ended up here. The house will come alive as I walk out into the streets and carry a piece of it with me. A piece of home wherever I go.
The street lights will be musky silk saree yellow. I will walk on the streets towards and away from my house. I will walk with a house in my sleeves and old jeans. With a home. A home of my own.