Change....

The rhythmic sweep of the broom against the tiled floor, the sound that once served as the unwelcome alarm for my now-grow-up sons, now feels like an aching reminder of what’s about to vanish. Soon, there will be no familiar morning ritual, no impatient sighs at the too-early clatter. The airy apartment which has been home, the home that has cradled my entire existence will soon be no longer my comfort zone, and with it, a decadelong string of memories will be packed away in boxes, reduced to fragments.

Every object in this home holds a story. The cane sofa-set, a witness to years of laughter and lazy Sunday afternoons. The steel utensils, misshapen with time, a reminder of the competitive squabbles over the biggest glass at the dining table. The sheer-curtains fluttering in the afternoon breeze, the meat shelf that suspiciously never held meat, the hammered nails on the walls with calendars and mismatched wall hangings - everything speaks of a life lived, of a house that grew old alongside its people.

Yet beyond sentiment, practicality looms large. These older places demand repair and attention that few have the time or funds for. Empty rooms sit unused, ghost-like, waiting for someone to need them again. Today, everyone craves their own space - where the definition of privacy isn’t just a locked bedroom, but an entirely different experience. Yes, times have changed from independent homes to flats in many places. The concept of a shared living room feels almost alien now, something our parents and grandparents embraced effortlessly with their modest budgets and crowded households. Festivals back then were simple but joyful, food was always enough even when the menu was small, and clothes were bought only on special occasions - none of the impulsive shopping sprees we indulge in today. Maybe I long for those times...And so here I am, trying to make a reverse turn to living back in a home which will not be a flat….

This home isn’t just four walls; it’s a collection of people, a scrapbook of nostalgia, a comforting embrace of all things familiar. Moving to another place doesn’t mean I’ll be homeless. But it does mean losing the feeling of home - that safe, steady presence that never changed no matter what else did. Shifting might be the logical choice, a way to streamline life and make things easier (or busier and different!), but in doing so, I find myself grasping at the definition of what home even means.

Soon, this home will be unoccupied . In its place, a household with new faces, new routines, new walls will come up. The lemon tree may be cut down, no fragrant jasmine petals will carpet the terrace in October, and the sweet scent of the madhumaloti ( Rangoon creeper or Burma creeper) will be lost to time. I am not just leaving behind bricks and mortar; I am leaving behind the well-worn paths of familiarity, the simple certainty of belonging.

Moving is an unpredictable dance of nostalgia. One moment, the promise of new beginnings excites you. The next, you are holding onto an old, stained and chipped coffee mug, suddenly convinced it carries the weight of a thousand mornings.

It’s the echoes of laughter in an emptying room, the worn-out dent on the couch where you always sat, the way the golden sunlight crept through the window just so at a particular hour. You look back and see your kids playing football in the corridor. You see the marks on the doorframe measuring childhood growth, the scratches on the floor that have never changed, the effortless knowledge of how to jiggle the handle so the door locks properly.

These tiny, unnoticed conveniences - the shortcuts and quirks of an old home - suddenly feel like irreplaceable treasures.

But maybe nostalgia isn’t just about longing for what was. Maybe it’s about trusting that someday, the new home will have its own well-loved corners, its own oddly placed light switches, its own perfect sunlit afternoons. And perhaps, one day, I will know exactly where the scissors and my sewing basket belong again, and just like that - I will be home...