Episode 3: The First Touch of Home

That morning, sunlight streamed through the balcony curtains, gentle yet unfamiliar. I woke up to the sound of a distant hawker’s call, and for a moment, I had to remind myself—I wasn’t in my father’s courtyard anymore. This was my house now. A house that still felt like borrowed space.

I stepped into the kitchen with determination. Yesterday, it had seemed like a stranger’s kitchen—vessels too shiny, shelves too bare. But today, I wanted to claim it. The steel box of spices my mother had packed sat quietly on the counter, waiting. I opened it, and the familiar fragrance of haldi, jeera, mirchi, and garam masala greeted me like old friends.

My fingers lingered on the turmeric, and a thought crossed my mind—it wasn’t just spice, it was colour. My Maa at home often said, “Haldi har cheez ko roshan karti hai, beta.” That morning, it wasn’t just food I wanted to cook. I wanted to bring warmth to this space.

I found an old glass jar tucked into my trunk—slightly chipped, but still pretty. Carefully, I poured the haldi into it. Its golden hue lit up the counter like a tiny sun. Beside it, I placed red chili powder in another jar, its fiery colour glowing against the sunlight. I didn’t have expensive containers or polished racks, but in that moment, I realized—home doesn’t begin with perfection. It begins with presence.

By the time I had arranged all the spices into jars, the kitchen already looked different. Not fuller, but warmer. It was mine now.

After cooking my first meal—a simple dal and roti—I sat cross-legged on the floor with my plate. The first bite carried me back to my mother’s kitchen, and tears welled in my eyes. But these were not just tears of longing—they were also of strength. I had done it. I had made this strange kitchen sing my tune.

When my husband came home that evening, he noticed the jars lined neatly. “Yeh tumne kiya?” he asked, surprise softening his voice. I nodded shyly, expecting nothing. But his smile was genuine. “Accha lag raha hai. Ghar jaisa.”

That word—ghar—it rang in my ears long after. He didn’t know it, but those two words were my first victory.

That night, as I folded my sari, I thought about all the corners of the house that still looked lifeless—the empty shelves in the living room, the plain white walls, the bed covered with stiff factory-smelling sheets. They weren’t unwelcoming. They were simply waiting. Waiting for me.

And then, I smiled. I had an idea.

I remembered the small pieces of coloured cloth my mother had slipped into my trunk. “Tujhe silai ka shauk hai,” she had whispered, “Inhe le ja, kabhi kaam aayenge.” She had always known I liked making little things with my hands. Back home, I used to stitch covers for the kitchen jars, small cloth bags for keeping dried chillies, even tiny table runners from leftover fabric. Those weren’t big creations, but Maa always said they carried my nazaakat.

I pulled out those fabric pieces from my trunk. They were bright—maroon, mustard, and green—little remnants from old saris and blouses. To anyone else, they were just scraps. But to me, they were possibilities.

That evening, under the weak yellow light of the lamp, I began to stitch. My bangles clinked softly with every move of the needle. The cloth slowly turned into a small cover, then into a pouch. Hours passed, but I didn’t notice. I was creating—not just cloth pieces, but comfort.

By the time I finished, my hands ached, but my heart felt light. I draped the maroon runner on the small wooden table near the window. Suddenly, that table wasn’t just a piece of furniture anymore. It was mine. It had a story now.

The next morning, when I placed a small steel tumbler of fresh flowers on it—two marigolds and one rose bought from the street vendor—the room looked alive. A spark of life had entered.

And that’s when it struck me: maybe this was my path. Maybe decorating, creating, shaping—this was not just for survival, but for joy. For building a life, one corner at a time.

As I sipped tea that morning, looking at my little maroon runner with flowers on top, I whispered to myself:

“These hands will not just cook and clean. They will create. They will carve this house into a home.”

The house, still unfamiliar in many ways, seemed to listen. The walls, plain and empty, no longer looked cold. They looked patient—waiting for more stories, more touches, more love.

That day, the house and I made a silent promise. I would not let its emptiness frighten me. Instead, I would fill it—slowly, steadily, lovingly. With every jar, every cloth, every flower.

And so, the first thread of my new life was stitched.