25.

Over 22 years, I've lived in 8 houses. It makes my definition of 'home' malleable, I move in and move out in a trice leaving behind but traces of my existence. Perhaps that's why I started calling my hostel room 'home' before most people did. It didn't really matter when the room I had spent years in and embossed my personality upon was suddenly taken over by a friend whose family moved to our office-owned quarters.

We've lived in my current house for 6 years now. Lived, though, is a touch incongruous. I've lived in it for a year and then visited it twice a year while I was away in college. It was brand new when I moved away. When I came back every vacation, I'd find my parents older than before in a very noticeable way. The house seems to reflect this. It's creaky at the knees, looks worse for the wear and complains of disfunctioning parts. Not to equate my dad's hearing with a malfunctioning flush, but maybe that's what a home is about. It grows with you. If my mother's redecorations had anything to do with it, the house would grow every week.

The plumbers are over this week to fix that flush. Painters will be over soon to brush over the blotches on the wall that the monsoons bring. Our homes reflect our lives. Now if only our lives could reflect our homes and the painters and plumbers for our lives took our ageing blemishes away.