Chapter 2: Dreams Deferred

When we got married, the house we bought was still under construction. The wedding itself was a whirlwind—relatives from Chennai and Delhi, the smell of jasmine mingling with sandalwood. The elders’ blessings, the gold bangles, the red kumkum dot, and all through the rituals, that promise of a new home hung over us like a blessing yet to arrive. We counted days and marked off the calendar, as if our life together would only truly begin with the griha pravesh.

While we waited for it to be ready, we rented a place near Arjun’s office. The neighbourhood was nice, the colony committee was good—and most importantly, it was very close to his workplace.

We lived among retired government officers, their grandchildren’s laughter echoing in the evenings. Arjun would come home, sometimes late, and I’d keep his dinner warm, the rice cooker on standby. The proximity to his work made life easy, but somehow, a little dull.

Now, after getting used to living here, he said he didn’t want to shift for the time being.

He sat at the dining table, laptop open, and declared it almost offhandedly between bites of aloo paratha. The words stung more than I cared to admit.

I felt a bit hurt. I pressed my lips together, busying myself with folding his office shirts, careful not to let a single tear drop onto the starched cotton. The ache lingered. It was as if someone had taken away a festival I’d been waiting for all year.

After all, that was the home we had chosen so carefully. More than that, it was my first real home—a place that meant everything to me.

The house was more than bricks and mortar—it was hope, the promise of belonging. I remembered the hours spent choosing tiles, the debates over kitchen layouts, the dreams of hosting Diwali poojas. For me, it was the one place I could finally call mine.

My parents divorced when I was young. Both of them started new families and neither wanted to keep me. I became a burden, spending my childhood shuttling between my paternal and maternal grandmothers’ houses.

The ache of never fitting in, of being a guest in every room, never faded. I grew up listening to the hush-hush whispers of family politics, always careful not to disturb anyone’s peace, always tiptoeing around other people’s memories.

For as long as I can remember, my biggest dream was to have a home of my own—a little nest that truly belonged to me.

Sometimes I’d imagine arranging my books, lighting a diya by the window, making rasam and sambar just the way I liked—without anyone telling me what I could or couldn’t do. That dream kept me going through many stormy nights.

But this rented flat, though fine in other ways, came with strict landlord rules: we weren’t allowed to change the decor, not even hang a photo frame or move a piece of furniture without her approval.

Aunty upstairs would come knocking if even a stool shifted. The walls remained bare, our wedding photo packed away in a suitcase. The smell of someone else’s incense lingered in the corners.

In my heart, it felt no different from living under someone else’s roof.

I’d wake up each morning, make filter coffee in silence, and feel like a guest in my own kitchen. Even the utensils belonged to the landlady, marked with little red paint. I missed the feeling of putting my own stamp on things.

But Arjun insisted that his work was demanding, with frequent overtime, and that living close to the office made him much happier.

He’d sigh, rubbing his forehead, “Yaar, if I have to travel so much, by the time I reach home, you’ll already be asleep.” His tiredness was real, but my longing didn’t go away.

He really does work hard. At the start of the year, he landed a major project for the company, got promoted, and is now highly valued by the MD.

His phone would buzz at odd hours—sometimes from his boss, sometimes from clients. He’d attend endless Teams calls, muting the TV so he could focus. It was easy to see why he clung to any convenience he could find.

So, even though I was disappointed, I agreed. I tried not to show my sadness, swallowing it like medicine. After all, “Shaadi mein samjhauta toh karna padta hai na,” my grandmother would have said.

Unexpectedly, not long after, Arjun changed his mind. One weekend, out of nowhere, he suggested we visit the new flat. His tone was softer, almost apologetic, as he dusted the car dashboard with a tissue. My hopes, dormant for months, flickered to life again.

He said a friend had invited him to a griha pravesh at their new place. That made him realise something new about what a home means.

He described the puja—how the priest broke a coconut at the entrance, the smell of agarbatti filling the air, friends teasing the new couple as they crossed the threshold. For a moment, he looked wistful, as if a new understanding had dawned.

A house of one’s own is always best; only your own place can truly be called home, with the warmth of daily life and a real sense of belonging and happiness.

He spoke of the laughter echoing through the empty halls, the sense of legacy. “Apna ghar toh apna hi hota hai,” he said, finally echoing what I’d felt all along.

“It’s my fault. I was only thinking about myself and ignored your feelings.”

His hand found mine—warm, reassuring. “Galti ho gayi yaar, maaf kar do.”

He put his arm around my waist and gently kissed my forehead.

I closed my eyes, letting myself believe that our story, too, was about to begin afresh, in a home we could call our own.

“This is the first little nest we own. We have to cherish it.”

His words sounded almost poetic. For the first time, the house became more than an address—it became a promise.