This article was penned by Anusuya Datta, a writer and journalist residing in Saskatoon. To delve deeper into First Person narratives, refer to the FAQ.
When we adorned our house with holiday lights in early December in Saskatoon, there was no snowfall. Despite the absence of the white powdery flakes, I couldn’t help but admire our home once again.
I have always believed in the saying, “Home is where the heart is.” After three years in Canada, it appears that we have finally discovered a place to call our own.
The instant my husband, teenager, and I entered the house for the first time during our house-hunting journey, we were captivated by the abundant windows. Natural light streamed in from all angles, filling every room with a cozy, welcoming radiance, even the basement!
“Ma, this feels like home,” remarked my child.
I hadn’t seen that smile on my kid’s face in a long while.
“And not a dentist’s office!” quipped the typical cocky teenager, referencing the numerous other “perfect” houses we had been exploring.
This dwelling exuded beauty in its simplicity and comfort, with a front yard that extended gracefully and a backyard adorned with swaying poplar trees.
And those windows, of course.
It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t spacious. It wasn’t cramped. It was just right.
It was love at first sight.
Recollections of Home from Childhood
Standing in our backyard, surrounded by Christmas lights, the now aging greenery, and the leaf-covered ground, I was reminded of my childhood abode in India, which boasted a similar expanse of nature. The front yard hosted a fragrant jasmine bush and towering sunflower plants. The backyard harbored Mom’s vegetable garden, which my siblings and I once completely dug up to install a makeshift canal system for watering the plants automatically. I still recall Mom’s shock at our ingenious plan.
Nostalgia washed over me, filling me with profound gratitude for the chance to recreate similar memories with my family.
The past few years since our relocation from Delhi to Saskatoon have been a whirlwind of uncertainties for my family.
Our previous home in India was our initial investment as a young couple. The idea of ownership gave us a sense of command — the belief that we could make this space uniquely “ours.” It served as a canvas for our dreams and ambitions.
It was vastly different from the home I grew up in. Delhi, like other major cities in India, was undergoing vertical expansion at that time, and the only options for middle-class individuals like my husband and me were apartments in towering concrete complexes. However, we cherished our apartment. It boasted large windows and sliding doors leading to spacious balconies. Sunlight streamed in almost all day, to the extent that we lamented it during scorching summers.
It was a place where memories accumulated over the years, where every nook held a tale, and the walls resonated with laughter and tears.
It wasn’t expansive. It wasn’t cramped. It was just right for the two of us. Then three, after our child arrived.
It was our sanctuary.
