Small House... Loud Love

The door still opened inward, brushing against the shoe rack before it could swing fully. Sanya had somehow forgotten that. She stood there for a second longer than necessary, her suitcase half inside, half outside, as if her childhood home needed time to recognise her.

“Sanya beta,” her mother’s voice called out from somewhere inside. Not loud. It didn’t need to be.

Sanya stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. She struggled with the latch as usual. Some things just never change.

The house felt different from how she had remembered it. Or perhaps it was that she had grown used to spaces that didn’t expect her to adjust. She didn’t need to tuck in her elbows or step aside to make room for someone else to pass by. In her childhood home, the walls leaned in like an old woman bending down to listen to their little granddaughter’s whisper.

Sanya entered the living room. The sofa had been reupholstered. It was now bottle green, padded with yellow flowered cushions. But it sat in the same stubborn position, blocking half of the window. The centre table was the same round piece of furniture, perpetually cluttered with newspapers, the remote, a few coins, and her father’s used teacups.

Her eyes stopped wandering when she spotted him in the corner. There he was, her old man, snoring in his favourite chair, mouth slightly open, the afternoon news murmuring in the background. Sanya’s mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the end of her saree pallu, already frowning.

“Why didn’t you call me when you reached? I would have sent Vikram to come and pick you up from the airport.

“Oh, mummy. Please. I’m not a little girl anymore. Why would you trouble, Bhai? I’m sure he’s still at work.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “What else are brothers for? And look at you. Don’t you eat food? Aren’t you looking after yourself? You’ve lost so much weight!”

But before Sanya could even reply, her mother dismissed her with a wave, reaching for her tote bag hanging on her daughter’s shoulder. “Put this down. Why are you standing like a guest? Keep your bags inside. I need the place organised. Your cousins are going to start arriving soon.”

Inside meant the bedroom Sanya used to share with her younger sister, Nisha, which was now mostly storage. The corridor was narrow enough that they had to walk single file. She waited for her mother to take the lead, her bangles clinking softly against the wall she passed. They walked by the kitchen. It was alive. Food preparation was in full swing. The pressure cooker was hissing on the stove. Another pan was on a simmer with onion and tomato puree. The blender was mixing fresh coriander and mint chutney. It all smelled so tantalizing. Sanya could already feel her tummy rumble. Toward the end of the kitchen, the balcony door was open, and the neighbour’s television bled into the afternoon, indistinguishable from the family’s own sounds. Sanya heard the phone ring from a distance. She heard the cry of a baby. The bark of a stray dog. The sound of impatient horns blasting.

Sanya stood still, allowing it all to settle in.

Back in Bangalore, Sanya’s home waited quietly for her. The doors opened wide. The rooms were spacious and large. Nothing was cramped or piled.

Sanya placed her bag near the antique, round wooden table in the corner of her old bedroom. She saw her mother rush back to the kitchen, murmuring to herself, hoping the onion tomato paste would not have overcooked. Her thoughts were flooded with memories of the house held. There used to be silence only when people weren’t home or before anyone had woken up. Throughout the rest of the day, the house was filled with overlapping sounds, none of them apologetic.

Sanya’s elder brother Vikram used to be the first one to wake up after his parents. He had college in the morning. His alarm clock rang too loudly and never stopped on its own. Many times, he would hit the snooze button once, twice, sometimes three times, before he would slam the snooze button and swing his legs off the bed. His younger sisters, Sanya and Nisha, knew the exact rhythm of that sound. It only meant they had twenty minutes before the bathroom became occupied (long term).

There was only one bathroom, and it set the pace of their mornings. Each member of the family knew that if they had missed their turn or if they were late, they’d just have to wait. Patiently. If they were impatient, they would knock. They would never argue about time, about water, about who had gone last. It was always such a smooth morning routine. One family member after the other. Day in and day out.

Sanya thought about her bathroom back in Bangalore. It was big enough to fit a yoga mat inside, which she considered a small luxury. She and her husband had separate bathrooms, a decision made early and with complete agreement. Their mornings overlapped neatly, and this spared them the quiet irritation of sharing mirrors and time.

Her bathroom was crowded in a deliberate way. Creams, lotions, face washes, toners… things she used, things she meant to use, all arranged by habit rather than order. A towel hung half-folded. The mirror carried faint marks she never bothered to erase.

His bathroom was simple. One soap. One shampoo bottle. One razor. Nothing that stayed longer than necessary.

The arrangement worked. Love, she had learned, did not require sharing every space.

While growing up, Sanya and Nisha shared a smaller bedroom. Their beds used to be pushed close enough that their hands sometimes touched in their sleep. Nisha was the talkative one. She always had lots to share before sleeping. Sanya would pretend to be annoyed but still wouldn’t tell her sister to stop blabbering. Nisha would whisper stories, secrets, and every minute detail that came to her mind at that moment. Sanya had missed her sister’s company tremendously after getting married.

The dinner table had also been used as a study table. Their books had to be stacked neatly in each corner of the room. Their mother insisted on order even when space refused to cooperate. Their cupboards were shared. Their clothes were passed down. But they learned how to live together, in a small, tiny house, in peace and harmony, and still managing to dream, tucking their elbows in, and having few expectations.

Meals were the loudest part of the day. Plates clattered. Spoons scraped against steel. The children ate without complaint, eating until their stomachs were full and their hearts fuller. Their father was the quietest among them. Their mother spoke enough for everyone, calling out reminders … Finish your homework. Don’t waste food. Turn off the extra lights in the other room.

Of course, there were fights. But the fights had a lifespan. They ended because there was no space for them to continue.

Love arrived unannounced. Sometimes it disguised itself as irritation, as routine, as insistence. It showed up in small, kind ways… an extra portion of gajar halwa, a blanket pulled over without asking, favourite dishes prepared more than usual, tea made without request, and reminders shouted from room to room.

Privacy was a foreign concept. Love was not.

By the time Sanya got married and started a new life with her husband in Bangalore, she realised how much of herself had been shaped by the noise. She only knew she wanted space. She wanted doors she could close and stay silent behind.

Little did Sanya know that silence, once earned, does not always feel like freedom.

Initially, after moving to Bangalore, it felt like a relief. The newlyweds’ rented apartment in Bangalore had doors that closed without protest and walls that held their ground. The room didn't listen. The walls didn’t lean in to overhear conversations. The kitchen remained untouched and silent unless Sanya invited it to speak. She could leave a book open on the table and find it untouched for hours. Nothing needed defending.

She learnt the luxury of space quickly. She also learnt how to live without announcing herself. She managed to sit alone without feeling watched. For a period of time, she mistook all this for growth.

Slowly, life settled into patterns. Workdays stretched longer. Weekends arrived softly. Sanya and her husband shared the house with ease, each occupying their own spaces without effort. It felt mature. Balanced.

Their cupboards were organised. Their bed was large enough that they never brushed hands in their sleep. If Sanya woke up in the middle of the night, there was no one whispering stories into the dark.

She told herself this was how independence felt.

Phone calls replaced shouting across rooms. Messages replaced reminders. Family news arrived in fragments.

When Sanya visited home occasionally, the noise overwhelmed her at first. But there were moments that made her realise that her new life felt too calculated. When Sanya cooked, her hands automatically reached for plates. She always waited for someone to comment on the meal she had prepared. For someone to say something about the weather or their day… or anything. It hit her even harder when no one asked where she was going and what time she was going to return when she had to step out in the evening.

But there was nothing missing exactly. Everything was in place. Or did it just seem to be?

Many times after a long day at work, Sanya missed the commotion. She missed the interruptions, the chitter chatter. A distant voice calling her name. Footsteps she recognised without seeing. The comfort of knowing that in the evening, even if she wanted to be alone, she would not be.

Unknowingly, space had given her freedom.

But it also taught her what absence sounded like.

By evening, her childhood home had softened into itself.

Her father woke up, asked her questions about when she had arrived, and nodded as if her answer satisfied him. He asked about work, about his son-in-law, about the city, about the traffic. As always, he listened attentively. His questions felt less like curiosity and more like reassurance. It warmed Sanya’s heart as she knew he still believed that she was in reach.

Soon, Vikram had arrived, carrying the outside world with him. Office complaints, phone calls, followed by grumbling and impatience. Over time, her elder brother had grown into the practical one, the kind who always looked after their parents, took responsibility, managed the bills, and kept the show running smoothly. He wanted to move his parents to a bigger, better place. But their father refused to budge.

Nisha followed soon after, louder than the rest of the family combined. She hugged Sanya tightly, her laughter filling the room before she did. She spoke quickly, about work, about friends, about nothing in particular. The house absorbed her easily. It always had.

Sanya’s mother moved around the kitchen with the same certainty she always had, even though her steps were slower. The extended family had arrived. The house was full to bursting. She didn’t ask what everyone wanted to eat. She already knew. Everyone helped serve, eat, and relish the delicious dinner Mother had prepared with so much love.

Dinner was crowded. Plates overlapped. Elbows rubbed against each other. The television played in the background, mostly ignored. Conversations crossed each other without waiting for permission. Sanya listened more than she spoke.

At some point, her mother placed more food on her plate without asking. She protested weakly. Her mother ignored her completely.

Soon, they gathered around their father, made him cut the cake, and celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday. As they all sat together… some on folding chairs, some on the couch, and some on the floor. Sanya noticed how tired everyone looked. The noise had thinned. The house felt older, like it had learned to conserve its energy.

And yet, when someone laughed, the sound travelled everywhere.

That night, mattresses were rolled out. The extended family tucked in wherever there was space. Cousins sprawled on mattresses. They chatted and giggled till the wee hours of the morning. Sanya hardly slept. But it was the best time she had had in a long time.

The following morning, Sanya was the first to wake up. The house was quiet in a way it never used to be. She got ready and dressed herself. Prepared morning tea for her parents. She knew her mother would wake up soon and begin her day without ceremony. Her father would sit in the living room, on his usual chair, and read the newspaper aloud to no one in particular.

Soon it was time to leave. Sanya packed her suitcase quickly. Her parents stood by the door, each repeating to call when their daughter reached Bangalore. Nisha hugged her sister tightly. Vikram carried her suitcase without comment, but his eyes looked dull. The extended family wished her well and a safe journey home.

Before leaving, she paused for a moment. Sanya regarded her childhood home.

This house had held them all at once when they needed it to. It had absorbed their noise, their fights, their growing pains. It taught them how to live with other people, how to wait, how to share, how to stay, and how to survive.

It was never meant to be permanent. Just sufficient.

When Sanya reached her home in Bangalore, she decided to make a few minor changes. She moved the furniture around, making the place look less spacious and more cosy. She removed her husband’s bathroom utilities and shifted them to hers.

The following morning, her husband asked for his things.

She smiled. “We’re going to share bathrooms.”

Her husband was taken aback. “What has gotten into you. You arrived yesterday afternoon and have already made so many changes in the house. I think your parents gave you a long lecture when you were with them.”

Sanya shook her head. “I just think it’s high time we made this house into our home.”