They say we claim spaces and make them into homes. Two years ago, I had a space too. A home with a shabby backyard where we had a traditional South-Indian breakfast, idli with sambar and coconut chutney. She liked cooking outside when the skies were clear and bright; she never forgot to mention it as she did so. I would make a Nescafe-instant cold coffee and chat with her about the week.
She was only an aunt but cared like a mother. It was not my home but felt the closest to it. I had my own room, and I decked it with things from my hometown; the Kalamkari printed bedsheets from Hyderabad, the few pictures of my parents and my sister, a tiny unicorn figure that my friend sent over, and a lot of books and other trinkets. Though I never spent much time in it, I planned religiously to make every wall, every piece of furniture, and the littlest décor to feel like me.
Perhaps my subconscious picked up something about her husband that told me to keep building my home within a home. On the night of March 9th, my aunt had gone out with her friends. And sure enough, my instincts were right, and my efforts did not go in vain. I rushed and locked myself inside the room. As I fell onto the carpet, the sweet aroma of the sandalwood incense hit me, and my eyes fell on the tiny statue of Buddha on the corner table. For the first time, it was my room, and from that night, it was my safe haven.
After three months of holding it in, I finally spoke up. Nothing had really changed between them, but I no longer had an aunt or a home. I just…
