The Quiet Architects of Home
There are people you don’t even have a photo with. You didn’t visit their house every day or sit down for long conversations. You didn’t share milestones. But when you think of home, they’re there. In the background. In the air. My neighbors were like that. We lived in a close-knit community. I met them only occasionally, but whenever we did, they made their presence felt. Not loudly, just through small, hearty gestures. Pampering. Advice given as if I were their own child. Calling me mole — a word in Malayalam for daughter, spoken with love. Some of it used to irritate me. I'd wonder, “Who are they to tell me this?” But now I see it was care, offered freely. When they passed away, I didn’t cry. There were no grand emotions. But something shifted quietly. Their house still stands. But it no longer feels like theirs. New people live there now. My nephews call it by a different name. But for me, it will always be their house. Because I still hear their laugh when I pass by. I remembe...