I love my home. My home sweet home. No house feels like a home unless your loved ones reside in it. I love my home because my parents and siblings share it with me. My home is a restful, peaceful place. My home is in Kolkata, India in a place called New Town
My home is dear to me because it is the place where I spent my childhood. I learned to walk, talk, run and play there. My mother marked my height and of my siblings on a banister here. It is a modest two storey bungalow with a balcony that overlooks the neighborhood.
There are 4 bedrooms, one master bedroom and the other three belong to us kids. The floors are tiled, and walls are bricked from the outside. My father remarks its a typical English house that survived the colonial era. The ceilings are quite high and the woodwork is ornate which leads me to think he is right. The windows are English style as well. We usually spend our time in the living room in front of the TV. My mother likes to do all her work in front of it. My father reads his newspaper there. All the important discussions happen in the living room.
The best thing about my house is that it rarely requires fixtures. While most of my friends are complaining about maintenance work, I am carefree about my house. The quality of the infrastructure bespoke the intellect of the architect. My mother is also quite happy because of this and refuses to move to another house. I suspect it because she spent a lot of her time in cultivating the backyard and turning it into her kitchen garden. But I happen to agree with my mother.
I wouldn’t want to move to another house either. It holds many memories for me and experiences which I treasure. Whenever I have to be away from home for a couple of days, my heart gets homesick. The return to home is the only part I look forward to when I am travelling. The first night back, everything feels quite comfortable and soothing. I love my home and I wouldn’t change anything about it.
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