by Lavanya Pathmanaban
2010: Hubby and I had waited six years before we decided to buy a house in Sydney. The long wait ended after four weeks of searching for a house. On the auction day, Tanu, our three-year-old, let go of three Indigo helium balloons the agent had handed her before the auction, and we clutched on to a house instead. The imagery haunted me – the final hammer stroke, a new house and the balloons in the air – it felt like a reminder that we had to let go of something to get something else. The car bore the invisible weight of our recent purchase as we drove back in silence to our rented apartment in Strathfield. It would always be just “Strathfield”. Our house in the Hills would be just that – a “house”. “Home” was always Madras.
2011: I snubbed the alarm to silence with a single thought in my mind – “I have the 6:11 bus to catch”. What were we thinking? Why did we move to the suburbs? This did not feel like anchoring – more of an uprooting! In hindsight, I loved Strathfield: work was just 15 minutes away and there was always a train that stopped at Strathfield. Now, I had to catch the 614 bus at 6:11 am to reach work at 7:30 am. Drive the car, park, rush into the bus, open the laptop, strategize for the day, have breakfast at my desk, lunch at my desk and leave work at 3:30 pm to pick my daughter at 5 pm. The motorway renovation added another 15 aching minutes to my travel time. I wanted my suburb next to the train station back – pigeons and all!
2004: On board Singapore Airlines for the first time, I wondered about the decisions, the crossroads that had led me to Sydney. I remembered school art classes – where the colours were forbidden to transgress the outline of the cat. The slight wrinkle that appeared near Heather miss’ lips when the orange fur lazily slipped into the whiteness of the without. My flight ticket was the orange cat fur that stretched and rippled through the invisible boundary of India. My second trip away from home was across the sea and I wore my turmeric cloak of “newly-wed” loneliness all around me.
I searched for a book store in Sydney long before we found an apartment and bought copies of The Fountainhead and the Lord of the Rings. I filled the bareness of the unit with the familiar – photos, books, music, and memories – I had brought them all safe through customs and strangers. I heard the chatter of Sydney trains from my 11th storey residence and slept in the familiarity of their comfort.
2006: Two years later – I was still diffidently guarding my idea of home. Geographically, a big sea and a bigger desert stood between me and home And that was not a problem! However, emotionally, home was that elaborate, ornate tapestry woven with the threads of familiarity – each strand replete with memories of yesterday. The mind yearned for the lazy freedom of a typical Chennai home in on a Sunday morning – “The Hindu” in one hand, the coffee tumbler in another and the radio music constantly interrupted either by static or the noisy bickering of the veranda crows. Even the crows sounded abrupt in Sydney, their cawing a languid sorrow when compared to the hurried, hungry impatience of the Chennai crows. Crows at home had purpose; they had spunk. Nostalgia always hung around me, a pregnant, dark cloud that adamantly refused to let me see the toes of my new footprints in a foreign terrain.
2007: Tanu was born a year after I had commenced my public sector career in Sydney. Three months later we boarded the flight to Chennai. A baby in the family after many years – joyful grandparents, great grand-parents, celebration, and chaos – happiness buzzed around us. Yet, I was caught in limbo – a palm tree in the middle of nowhere. Chennai coffee tasted different, dad read news on the computer, dosa batter was readily available in the shops. Moreover, the Avent baby bottles, pink Huggies nappies, Sudocrem, iPod, Jurlique hand cream and my knee-length dresses that came out of my Antler duffel bag ruffled the contours of my home. Home had changed in my absence and also with my presence. I felt a tiny pang of elation when I caught the faint glimmer of Botany Bay water in the evening sun as my flight approached Sydney.
2010: I could see the trains snaking their way past my Strathfield apartment. I could barely hear them above the banter of everyday conversation. Our apartment was getting crowded – new friends, a baby cot that needed to be replaced and the growing boxes of toys. It was a month after the auction, a month after my child added a tinge of Indigo to an otherwise wet, blue sky with her balloons, and a day after the final settlement. I reassured myself that hubby and I had thought about this, it had seemed the right thing to do. More space, amidst the native eucalyptus trees, near one of the best schools in Sydney – it was a logical decision. I stood near the balcony, holding a cup of Lady Grey tea, after the movers and packers had left. I watched the firefly glow of the trains as they passed by. Each train added yet another jitter to my teacup thoughts! Were we ready to move finally, drop the anchor and settle?
2014: I loved the mornings. They colourfully, exploded around me – a Sony Bravia advertisement moment at 5:30 am. This was one of those days – I could feel the colours though it was pitch black around me. I walked the dog, took a quick shower, inhaled the greenness of my jasmine tea, felt the grey warmth of my merino jumper and then laced the red, red shawl around my neck before I left home. I said a silent “bye” to the sleeping child and my hubby. I switched the white headlights of my silver Mazda on and it was just me, a song and the road.
It started with a “Yeppadi Paadinaro,” moved on to a full-throated Beyoncé giving it her all. The song, any song was a presence to void my morning sojourns. I parked my car near the bus stand and rushed to catch the 614 bus at 6:11 am.
I was early by a minute. My warm breath stirred the air, creating small whites puffs around me. I felt a non-smoker’s elation as the cold winter morning bubbled around me. After the driver’s good morning, the ping of my Opal bus ticket, I walked towards a window seat two rows from the rear, and my microcosm snuggled around me. I cannot sleep; I started to look around. A few familiar faces – the Telugu lady with a three-year-old who gave me a smug wave, the friendly man on his iPad and the Asian couple who always travelled together. I did not want a bus BFF.
The next 50 minutes brimmed with freedom that sunbathed my mind. I took a book from my bag, opened it and started to read. The words blurred after a while and a path drizzled open in front of my eyes. I distanced myself, stared through the window at the Motorway in front of me – the bus continued to speed and it felt like my journey connected the then and the now! I was finally home – that moment in time and place when I felt completely at ease with myself.
Pic: https://www.flickr.com/photos/honorthegift/
