There are things a house knows about you that no one else does. Things like how long you want to stay in bed before you start your day, do you turn off the bedside lamps before you turn on the lounge lights? In what order are you using the coffee mugs? Are they picked at random? Do you pick the vermillion red mug on weekends only, or the white-and-black striped mug when you’re in a rush? How much sugar are you having? It might be well known that you wear noise-canceling headphones, but that you wear them at home – in the kitchen, while doing the dishes – and startle at the slightest movement, catching sight of someone and jumping like a ball of nervous energy, only the house knows. Why do you never use the smaller yellow cups? They’re not coffee mugs, that’s why, they’re teacups. And only the house knows that you probably won’t use them for tea either, because they’re just so small. So what if they’re easy to store in the corner cupboard along with the Tupperware. Or that they’re easily stacked, one on top of the other – they’re just so innocent looking. And still, they are used – by the one person in the house who does not actually consume caffeine in any form regularly. What is the legitimacy of teacups that are only used by the one who has chaye with rusk (sorry, paapay) for breakfast sometimes, and doesn’t even finish it all? No legitimacy. Illegitimate teacups.
No legitimacy – illegitimate teacups! Only the house knows this. And the fact that they are tucked away, placed alongside Tupperware that is kept “just in case” – some missing lids, some with lids that do not quite match. The house knows the illegitimate teacups were purchased for their charm – not their utility. Only the house knows how it begins to gather itself, and how those who bring illegitimate, tiny yellow teacups into the house, make a very particular kind of claim on the future.
The appeal of the illegitimate teacups is sufficient for them to be brought into the fabric of home. It needs not to be practical, or even a fully conscious choice. Your mother says she has an old set of teacups lying around, they’re not in use, take them with you. What do you do, do you consider the fact that you don’t consume caffeine? Or the fact that there are already at least six mugs in the house for the two people who do? Do you consider if the illegitimate teacups will come in handy when guests come by? Sometimes when you ask people if they want to have chaye after dinner, they won’t say yes or no, they’ll say, thori si. Bring in the illegitimate teacups! It is their moment to shine, and so it is. As such, the house also knows your taste, your excessive attention to detail, your way of noticing objects at the Itwar Bazaar and imagining their presence among the rest of your collection; the house knows which jar you would want to put the nimko in and which one is for the cookies; it knows which jar stays in the kitchen and which jar is set on the blue truck-art tray in the living room next to the pink couch. The house knows this is about more than just size and space and price and color combinations. The house knows your preference for containment, for things that do not overwhelm decoratively, that are subtle like the sunlight seeping in from the living room windows.
There are things only a house knows about you; you clean while you cook. The house knows who is the last to go to bed and which is their favorite spot to sit in the lounge when it’s quiet and empty; who leaves the last cup in the sink; who rinses it; who gets out of bed right before passing out to double check all the locks. The house knows sometimes you all just put on a film, just for one of you to fall asleep on the couch within the first 15 minutes. It knows who is energy conscious and keeps slowing down the sink tap even when other people are using it, who adjusts cushions before sitting, who doesn’t. The house knows who finishes what is on their plate, who keeps changing their chappals all day and then takes them off randomly, effectively collecting them all in the living room by the end of the day. And the house knows who picks them all up eventually. The house knows who fills the water bottles before they run out and who only notices when they’re empty. The house knows what would be the topic of late night conversations at the dining table, depending on which two of you are bonding. It knows which one of you occupies space without thinking and which one measures themselves against it. The house knows how two or three people learn and unlearn each other like this day after day.
(to be continued)
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