Representative image for home address.
Credit: iStock
Recently, I lifted up my address, which I knew as a flat sheet of paper, the way I lift the kitchen area rug to sweep off the dirt. On lifting up the paper flat address, I was surprised to see it was not on a sheet of paper at all but a round that looked like a globe. It was even going round and round! A phenomenon, no doubt, but then was it not this same way that what was supposed to be a flat earth was discovered to be round after all? That was universal science, but my discovery was only an insignificant self-revelation.
I know where I am living, that my mailing address is made up of three short lines, which tells me I live in a small coastal New England town in the smallest of the United States. Often overriding this is the solid address in Bengaluru’s Shankarpuram, where I grew up. This was the address that mattered in a life lived among loved ones. There was no problem with my knowing where I lived.
However, in course of time, one flat address changed into another flat address, and that was the origin of the problem. Migration, marriage, children and family life, all spread over five-six decades. A new address was inevitable. This shift was followed by another change when the busy home turned into an empty nest. That is when time dragged and the problem of the correct address raised its head. I have to wonder constantly where I am. When I wake up, I pray to gods who are all in India. “With Narasimha in front, Krishna at back, and Rama and Lakshmana on either side, I get up, for what have I to fear?” Yes, that’s how I take one arthritic step after another every morning.
Then comes the daily bath. Routine, of course, wherever I am. Now, I invoke the waters from India once again. “Gange ca Yamune caiva Godāvari Sarasvati Narmade Sindhu Kāveri jale’smin sannidhim kuru.” Thus my mind travels like a flowing river from one place to another.
I am here in one place where I know I exist in a complete way; I cannot dispute that. But then I find myself in places that are just as real and true to my soul, places that live inside me and sometimes become more important than the place I am living in. Is there any wonder if my thoughts begin to spin in my head one fall morning as I sit down in the gliding chair by the sliding glass doors of the patio with a cup of hot coffee to watch the sun rise? At that moment, I ask myself, “Where am I really?” Forget the mailing address; what is my living address? I ask this question, for I see only one sun rising above wherever I am and one squirrel that could be anywhere in the world scuttling in and out of view this minute. What is my address, really?
Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.