Episode 2: My First Step Into a New House

When I crossed the threshold that day, my feet trembled. I carried dreams wrapped inside me, but the walls I entered stood bare, cold, and strange. The air smelled of fresh paint, but not of memories. My anklets made a sound on the floor, but it didn’t echo the way it used to in the corridors of my childhood home.

I held my sari tightly, as if to anchor myself. The people around me laughed, cheered, teased me, but inside, I was quiet. I watched every corner—empty shelves, untouched walls, a bed with neatly folded covers. It was not “home” yet. It was just a house waiting to breathe.

I placed my small steel trunk near the wall. That sound—it was the sound of my beginning. My bangles jingled as I lit the first lamp near the entrance. The flicker of that tiny flame looked nervous, just like me. For a moment, I wondered: would I ever belong here?

The kitchen called to me. A few vessels sat on the counter, shiny but unused. I touched them one by one. In their coldness, I saw possibility. I imagined steam rising, the smell of spices filling the air, the clatter of ladles becoming a rhythm of love. I smiled to myself—“Yes, this kitchen will soon know me.”

I walked from room to room. The bedroom was simple—a bed, two pillows, and a wardrobe that smelled of varnish. I touched the pillow and thought of the nights ahead—some filled with laughter, some with silence, maybe some with tears. But they would all be mine.

A small balcony overlooked the street. Children played cricket below, their shouts echoing upwards. I leaned on the railing. The breeze touched my face as if to say, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine here.” I believed it.

That evening, I arranged my few belongings. A photo frame, some folded clothes, a box of spices my mother had packed, and a small idol of God. I placed the idol in the corner, lit an incense stick, and for the first time, the room smelled like me. That scent was not just incense—it was my claim, my invisible signature.

At night, as I lay down, the ceiling looked unfamiliar, like a stranger staring back. My heart ached a little. I missed the sound of my mother’s voice calling from the kitchen, the comfort of the old cot in my childhood room, the smell of my father’s books.

But as I turned, I saw a flicker of the lamp still glowing faintly. Its light was weak, but it refused to die out. Just like me.

And that night, I whispered to myself—
“This may not be my home yet, but I will make it one. These walls will not stay empty. They will hold my laughter, my tears, my love, my memories. One day, they will breathe with me.”

I closed my eyes. For the first time, this house and I shared a secret