If you’ve lived in one place long enough, as I have, you can time travel. You would have seen the same wall with a thousand perspectives. Things seem small and big at once - because you’ve lived those realities. You walk inside the living room for probably the millionth time, and you can visualise the different versions of you that had walked before, looked up at decade-old paintings; and the wall clock that doesn’t work anymore. For when it did work, at 1:35 PM many winters ago, nothing else did.

27 years old now, I think the family can finally take a breather. We finally decided to move on to a house with no memories – a fresh block of concrete. I had come in to pack up all essentials, but the moment felt heavy. I sat and stared at the marble-adorned walls. They used to be covered in carpet because some stupid neighbour couldn’t fix a leaky pipe for half a decade. And when the carpet did come down in around 2015, the walls were covered from bottom to top with plain A4 sized paper…with random scribblings…all of which went “Mr. X from 1995 transformed into Mr. Y and came back in 2012”.

I remember coming back from the university in 2015, to find that my parents had been imprisoned by my elder brother. He is a towering figure, and his eyes were not the same as before…they were full of delirious rage and suspicion. My parents had accepted their fate…they lived in silence with impending doom hanging on their heads for many months, while I was out celebrating my youth and freedom. But our suffering magnified - when my brother left the house to join the millions of mentally ill destitute wandering the streets of India. The voices in his head told him tales, gave him directions, even provided him food. He called them his goddesses and married one such goddess. She said she would never leave him. But after what seemed like years of walking in the harsh cold North Indian winters, she led him to the shores of Ganga and drowned him. But then, she led him back to land and told him that he had been reborn. “Reborn!” exclaimed my brother – “washed from sin and doomed to sin again”. The very next time a policewala inquired about his family (and his Nike shoes), my brother reflexively narrated our address and phone numbers. He came back from the depths of Uttar Pradesh, into our living room, as a very different version of himself…not the version who topped his MSC, not the version who was unbeatable at table tennis, not the version who dreamed big dreams and thought they will never be broken…but still alive and still well, and that was all that matters.

I stood up from the couch and paced around. The house was empty after years. And my head was full. I went to my parents’ bedroom and remembered a much smaller me, cowering in my mother’s arms…while my parents argued if dying was the best option.

Something had snapped, and my mom’s eyes had the same colour of rage and suspicion as my brother from 12 years in the future…She said her paintings healed the earth and her spirit has been captured by the demons of old. The demons were all my father’s relatives - they had reincarnated to avenge their misfortunes from past lives. The demons had concocted a web using her powers to destroy the world. And at the break of every dawn, a wind chilling scream tore through the night’s pristine silence, as the demons took away her spirit.

The screams gradually reduced…till they stopped happening for months on end. She got help, the family learned, and it moved on. But some nights, the screams return. She cries for her soul to stay with her…but she has made peace with her reality. She believes in the depths of her heart that her entire being is at risk, but she showers us with love regardless…because she understands that no one else truly believes her…and all that she needs is our love to get through the pain.

My brother has mostly returned to his old self, studying science, playing, and eating. He thinks his life lacks meaning because he could never achieve his dreams. Well, at least he had dreams. I never dreamed…or if I did dream, I dreamt of small things - like security, stability, happiness. I crafted my risk free life, took measured decisions, never strayed from the beaten path. And now, after 27 years, it feels that things are looking up. I glimpsed through old pictures of the 90s, with everyone looking happy and young. Now, their faces look weathered but there is some contentment.

Lost in thought I forgot that I was here to pack up all that was worth salvaging. I called in the packers and movers, and started rummaging through belongings we wanted to take to our new home… a fresh slate with new beginnings. This claustrophobic house with its tentacles from the past will not witness the future.

I was in a good mood, humming “I want to break free”, when I remembered that I also had heard a faceless voice… 2 decades ago…and the voice whispered “Leave this place!”. The words echoed with such clarity that each word sounded like fearsome swords clanging in a ferocious battle… I can’t forget them. And this memory makes me fearful for the future. Doubt and malaise swept through my mind. Creating vivid visuals where I have lost control, I have drunk poison, I am running in the middle of the road - aiming to be crushed by a truck.

I got flustered. I need to stop these thoughts in their tracks. Maybe the past will come back and there will be rocky roads ahead, but this boat knows when to hoist its sails and when to race for shore.

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