Freedom, Somewhere in Bangalore

Climbing up to the fourth floor of a house can be tough, but when I was eight, the first step used to be enough to leave me winded. Winded, but victorious. Our holiday home, perched at the highest point of Bengaluru (at least in my eyes), was called the White House. Every time mother grabbed my hand upon entering its black iron gate, I would know it was time to brace myself. There were 64 steps to the flat, and I made sure to count them all on every trip—up and down.

The shining marble of the flight would lead to a thick door sloppily coated in enamel. It wasn’t the best welcome after having powered through the stairs—they were as high as my knees—but knowing what lay inside used to be enough to keep my elation levelled.

I remember the hefty bunch of keys my mother used to carry with her. She’d used the biggest one on it—number 73—to open the door. With its sonorous sound dangling in the backdrop, I’d run in and towards the balcony, urging mother to drop her grocery bags and come undo the tower bolt on the large glass doors. Panelled with white enamelled wood, they seemed forever out of reach. For a second I would crave to be tall enough to be able to reach its top myself, but the feeling would fade as soon as the gates were pushed towards the outside.

A burst of cool, crisp air gushed inside the house then, breaking force against my face. The sun in Bengaluru was always shining mercilessly, but somehow the wind made me feel chilly. Only later in life did I understand that it had something to do with how climate differs from weather.

Our balcony was the place where I wove all my dreams. No desire seemed unachievable here, not even the one to reach the tower bolt. Here, a hammock hung by flimsy beige threads on the right, while on the left side was a square tile, resting on legs of wood. Roaming this landscape from end to end took ages on my tiny legs, and more often than not, I would forget where I was headed by the time I reached the other side.

That routine moment was when I would ask my mother to help me up to the hammock. For if I couldn’t remember what I was meant to do, it was surely a good time to take a break and nap. It always felt like the web of threads would give in at any moment, but waiting for that to happen was a poignant experience back then. The anticipation mingled with the comfort of staring up at the clear blue sky would pull me into lucid dreams about angels.

Another favourite place for my lazy siestas was the olive green couch right next to the threshold of the balcony. By afternoon, the entire corridor of our linear flat would be flooding with fresh air, and the couch remained the only place warmed by the sun. I’d rest my head on the arm towards the side of the balcony, and wait for my legs to reach the other end. They never did. Across me sat two grandfather chairs, with designer wooden frames decorating the backrest like elaborate coiffures. 

For a child that age, all that holds importance is having an open space to run and a safe space to nap. In this simple two bedroom flat, my parents had provided for both. In this little castle, the black granite slab of the tiny kitchen was my throne—sitting on it I’d make demands for my favourite foods, while mother would finish up work. It was a happy space, and a happy time, for both me and my parents. It offered respite from mundane school days for me, and from the kick and shove of the world for them. 

Today, memories of the house have stuck with me as a mental escape. When I come across a staircase too tough to climb, or when I’m not lucky enough to sleep things off, I close my eyes and picture the white walls I used to cocoon inside. This was a space that taught me how to be metamorphose into a butterfly of her own will, and today, in its memory, I discover freedom again and again.