Each House has a tale to Tell – Script your Own

Have you ever wondered why is it that you fall in love with certain houses while others do not appeal? Why is it that while passing through a particular stretch of road in your city, you look out for a certain house, just for the pleasure of seeing it? This is because each house is a visualization of your imagination – a story that you want to tell.
We were in Delhi then; a decade back. On bus route 481, I would wait for a certain stretch of tree-fringed avenue, looking out for a red-tiled house with huge Gulmohur trees that burst out in orange flames. The house reflected a joie de voir, which I, a stranger, passing by, could sense. How nice it would be if our homes could reflect that joy of living?
A friend, as good fortune would have it, owned a rubber plantation in Changanassery, down south. The one-storey wooden house, atop the hillock, surrounded on all sides by the plantation, was in a world of its own. The nearest neighbour, in daytime was not visible; at night a distant light on another hill-top let you know that you were not alone in this world. That house had tales that ranged from the funny to the scary. During Christmas, when the family congregated, the children often got lost in the surrounding woods, so vast was the estate. The huge teak-wood table, marked over the years by names of cousins, bore stories of noisy meal times. How ‘chachi’ ran all over the courtyard to catch the chicken for lunch became stories that got recounted over the years. The house had tales of its own and the people who lived in it.
When we moved into this city, I was keen on staying in a bungalow, an option that was not achievable in the metros. Our otherwise nondescript house became famous as ‘palm tree-wala makan.’ This was, however, not planned. When we rang in for home delivery, food or otherwise, we initially used landmarks such as known shops, nursing homes and the ubiquitous tutorials of the city. However, over a time, as we became ‘regular,’ the person at the other end of the line would invariable say, “woh palm tree-wala makan?” and we would eagerly agree, thankful that no more explanations were needed. Those seven palm-trees in the small patch of garden, struggled with each other for scarce water and sunlight, made us walk warily under them with the danger of a dry branch breaking off, but gave an identity to the 20-year old weather beaten house and to us, who occupied it for sometime.
Would it not be nice if your dream home came to be identified with your choice and liking, the fern in your garden, the splash of colour from the Bougainville that curled round your balcony, the ornate gate and Victorian lamp posts that adorn your garden?