Fitting into a new house is like settling into a new marriage.
You adjust to certain ways of the house. The house changes itself for you in others.
The bedroom door that doesn’t close properly — you learn to pull it in just the right way so as to solve your purpose with the least noise. Like dealing with tempers at the end of a long day.
The leaking geyser pipe — you throw it away and get another one. Because some things aren’t worth holding on to. Like egos and old habits.
The uncomfortable commode seat — you move it around, fix a few screws, till it’s just right. Like coming out open about one’s personal preferences.
The gas cylinder in the middle of the kitchen — you learn to move around it. Like touchy-feely issues with your better half.
The tonnes of boxes in your living room — you make peace with their presence, while dealing with them one at a time. Like understanding each other’s food habits, waking and sleep patterns.
The lack of space and cramped shoe drawers — you wriggle about and get used to it. Like sharing your daily routine with someone else’s, not even complaining when they make you late for work.
The house shines bright new, full of promise and affection, stubbornly holding on to some things and lovingly offering you the moon in others. It is a delicate, lovely phase. And there’s God, peeking out from the tulsi plant in the balcony, the one that Ronnie has already chewed up.
The process is the purpose. Settling in is itself the reward for the effort of settling in. I savour the ride.