…you stop counting every four-wall-structure that you make a home for a while and then leave after that while – for some one else to do the same – in their own way.
Some say that there is only one such structure that they have known – some know many. Some change it so often that they question and search for roots. Some people I know hate moving from one place to another. Some of them enjoy it – almost as an adventure. They have plans, processes and strategies formulated for when they move. Ever seen a house that seemed to take more care of the packaging than the appliance itself? Well, in that case you know such a person.
I am one of them. That is second nature to me: moving; change.
Call it choice or chance, weigh it either ways. I love the suspense associated with moving. As if pregnant with hopes for seeing something new – meeting different people – who you may like or not like – if you get to know them, i.e.
I have often wondered if it is pathological in a subconscious way – this moving ever-so-often. Take the number of houses I have lived in and the years I have been alive – I think I have shifted every 1.5-odd years. Are the people (like me) who move so often, running away from their roots or are in the process of finding them? Richard Bach, when he was searching for his soul-mate, once said (something like) that searching for a person (in different places) is not a way to find her; it is a way to lose her. There is a corollary to that. The words fail me at this instance.
I am thankful that I am relatively well-rooted in reality; in my here and now. But, I won’t deny, I miss the wind of Konkan in my hair, the faint smell of mangoes and jackfruit, the beaches bereft of humans and plastic waste, the green-yellow-brown landscape (depending on the time of the year).
Maybe we aren’t born with roots (like the trees are); maybe we have to grow them. When we make a choice of belonging; nothing stops us from belonging – to more than one place.
I am just glad that my roots allow me to spread my branches.