No Place Like Home

So armed with something old (the old boyfriend), something new (a new resident permit), something borrowed (some curling mousse from a friend), and something blue (ummm…ok nothing, but shopping will remedy that), the task of decorating a new home awaits me. It’s a spanking new apartment, with color-coordinated furnishings and state-of-the-art fittings, in fact some which an average middle-class Indian may take some time to figure out, because an average middle-class Indian home doesn’t support such applications. It’s pretty, airy, and HUGE. But after a month of living there, it’s still not ours. I want to make it perfect, but I don’t know how.

When does an apartment become a home? How does the space get personalized? Do you put useless scented candles in every shower and ridiculous knick-knacks that husband’s boss gifted you at your housewarming party? Photos of your wedding on the nightstand, as if to remind yourself that you DID get hitched! Flowers on the dining table, but the fake ones, because you are not housewifey enough yet to be bothered to change old flowers every three days. Framed paintings of palm trees in muted hues so that they go with the beige-and-coffee décor. Or get an entire paint job into vibrant purple and chocolate and orange, kyunki har ghar kuchh kehta hai.

How can it become home if one hardly spends any time in it? For me, it’s still ok to have a gaping hole filled up with gray cement when the air-conditioning was put up. Or a full-length dresser mirror, which was defaced by a little cousin with glitter-happy fingers, who hoisted herself up on it and drew stars all along the borders. A glass shelf cracked cleanly down the middle, on top of the sink in the guest bathroom, because some idiot (me) put a candle right below it when there was no electricity. Homemade potpourri on tops of cabinets, not pretty like the store-packed ones, but way more effective. Windchimes that are placed along the outside corridor, and hit you on the head everytime you walk past.

Oh, there’s my answer. The little imperfections of a lived-in space, which really make it a perfect home.