Home-coming

I come from Goa. I’ve grown up in a place that has a roaring sea, green paths, raindrops the size of bullets, stormy winds that make coconut trees sway, a million different sunsets and a million moments trapped in memory

And I’m contemplating a home in a city.

And I’m home on a weekend.

And I choose this opportune moment to start reading Kahlil Gibran’s greatest works. 

What follows is a passage of words that resonate with my feelings to perfection.

Your house is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?

Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.

Would the valleys, were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

But these things are not yet to be.

In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And your fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.

And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?

Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?

Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?

Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned from wood and stone to the holy mountain?

Tell me, have you these in your houses?

Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires

Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

It lulls you into sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown lie fragile vessels

Verily, the lust of comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral

But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped or tamed.

Your house shall not be an anchor, but a mast

It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.

You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through the doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down

You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living

And though of magnificence and splendor, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing

For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist and whose windows are the songs and silences of the night.

– Kahlil Gibran (The Prophet)

Monsoon in goa