The House We Carry Within
- Harinath K
- 1 day ago
- 7 min read
Harinath
The places we never fully leave behind
Editor’s Note
The houses we remember are rarely made of bricks alone.
Sometimes they are built from the smell of a grandmother's kitchen, the quiet corner where we escaped with a book, the courtyard where festivals unfolded, or the small habits that slowly became part of who we are.
Long after the walls disappear, these places continue to live within us.
For this edition, residents were invited to revisit a space they still carry in their hearts—not necessarily a house, but a memory-home that shaped them.
What follows are three very different journeys.
Yet each reminds us of the same truth:
We may leave our childhood homes,but they never truly leave us.
A Small Note from the Editor
Every month, this magazine becomes meaningful because people choose to participate—not as writers, but as human beings willing to share a part of themselves.
Thank you to everyone who wrote these letters, and to everyone who continues to read, encourage, and support EI Lifestyle with warmth and sincerity.
A community is not built only through buildings and events.
It is built through conversations, memories, kindness, and the quiet ways in which people show up for one another.
This edition reminded me that gratitude often exists silently in our hearts—waiting for a moment to be expressed.
Thank you for making this space feel alive.
— Harinath,
EI Universe Chief Editor
SECTION 1
Corners of Wonder
The smallest spaces often hold the biggest memories.
Shachii Manik, T9
Playing with words, creating wonder
The Reading Loft
“Where has she gone now?” bellowed Mum, right when the clock struck one.
It was time for lunch on a hot summer afternoon.
But I was oblivious to the heat or the hubbub and lost in another adventure in Kirrin Bay or a beautiful country house in England.
Since the day school closed for the summer, Mum had noticed that she was missing a few things.
Her pink, floral bedsheet, a beautiful cushion from the sofa, and a bunch of books from the rack next to my bed!
Little did she know that one by one, each of these items had snuck in with me into my grandpa’s empty room, to the far window, clambered up the six horizontal bars, caught on to the edge of the cupboard and bounded up to the flat surface that was just the right size to hold me and my favourite books.
It wasn’t easy to find me unless you knew exactly where my secret reading loft was.
I’d used the bedsheet and cushion to make the space comfortable enough to spend hours up there during the summer vacations.
To this day, the mere thought of this cosy cupboard-top corner conjures up memories of all the little things that brought so much joy when we were kids!
SECTION 2
Summers We Still Carry
Some memories return not through photographs, but through a taste, a smell, or a season.
Harish Dixit
The smell of summer, the thrill of mischief, and the comfort of belonging.
The Mangoes That Tasted of Summer
There is something quietly extraordinary about the way a childhood memory can find you when you least expect it.
Not through photographs or stories told at dinner tables, but through a smell, a sound, or the sight of someone you love doing something wonderfully unselfconscious.
Last week, I was on a family vacation in Dapoli, Ratnagiri, when it happened to me.
We had woken early that morning to the fluting calls of the Indian Blackbird and set off on a morning walk through the resort’s magnificent Aamrai, a grove of over 3,000 mango trees sprawling across 55 lush acres.
The previous night’s storm had been generous.
Mangoes lay scattered across the ground.
That is when my wife abandoned all adult composure, and started gathering them with the unbridled joy of a seven-year-old.
Watching my wife gather fallen mangoes from a rain-soaked path in Dapoli, brought back a childhood memory, bright and whole, like a childhood song you never quite forgot.
Every summer, when the schools closed and the city of Mumbai grew hot and restless, our family would make the long journey to our native village in Uttar Pradesh.
For a child, that train ride alone felt like the beginning of a grand adventure, full of passing fields, and the slow, magnificent widening of the sky.
The village was everything Mumbai was not. Quiet. Green. Unhurried. And best of all, it had the mango orchards.
On one particular golden afternoon, a band of us children had slipped away for our favourite forbidden sport of harvesting mangoes by lobbing stones at the branches.
One boy stood guard, watching for grown-ups. The mangoes were ripe and heavy, and the air smelled impossibly sweet. We felt like the cleverest children in the world.
Then the alarm was raised. The orchard caretaker was coming.
What followed was the most dramatic sprint of my young life.
Small legs pumping, heart hammering, I ran until the village temple appeared before me and my lungs simply refused to carry me further. I bent over, breathless, and waited for my fate.
The caretaker arrived. And then he did the most unexpected thing in the world. He laughed.
He offered me water from the hand pump nearby, asked me gently why I was running, and walked me all the way home. My father was waiting at the door.
The two men exchanged a few words and then both burst into laughter that I could not understand at all.
My father knelt down and explained, still smiling, that the orchard was ours. Every last tree.
There had never been anything to fear. He even asked the caretaker to bring me the finest mangoes he could find the very next day.
I stood there feeling wonderfully, gloriously silly.
It was a comforting memory to recall. The human mind is an amazing thing and so is our childhood!
SECTION 3
The Workshop Within
Sometimes the rooms that shape us exist entirely inside ourselves.
Simar Bedi, T5
Driven by purpose, grounded in gratitude
Gold In The Cracks
Growing up, the world inside my home wasn’t built from store-bought luxuries but from the hidden treasures others had overlooked.
This shaped my inner world by a unique magic; seeing beauty and potential in things the world had cast aside.
Lacking a school best friend, my childhood solitude became my studio.
I found sanctuary in the quiet alchemy of creating "best out of waste”- crafting photo frames from discarded cardboard and trees from ordinary stones, weaving yarns & making vases from coal tar.
In those days, if you ran out of a material, you couldn't simply order it online with a click.
You waited for days.
That anticipation taught me the true anatomy of dedication and focus.
To my parents, this seemed like a worthless waste of time.
"It’s not worth it," they would say, unintentionally planting limiting beliefs about value.
But our inner nature knows what we need before we do.
That childhood loneliness, once a heavy void, became the foundation for a fierce, unshakeable independence.
It taught me focus, dedication, and how to stand alone.
It also taught me that ‘some beautiful pieces’ takes time, determination, a lot of passion and patience.
For years, life took over, and I thought I had left that creative girl behind.
But this past May, everything came full circle. Life gave me the opportunity to teach children the very “Art & Craft’ that saved my own childhood.
I seized it with all my heart. I planned each & everything that gave me joy when I was a kid.
For a recent Summer Camp, I spent four months excitedly curating twenty-five distinct art and craft activities from scratch.
I proudly, lovingly, and very passionately designed each one around mindfulness and emotional intelligence.
I wanted everything built from scratch. Most importantly, I insisted on "take-home crafts."
Remembering how my own childhood creations were dismissed, I wanted every child to carry their tangible pieces of joy home, feeling entirely validated and proud; like once I did after creating my own, unique pieces.
The ultimate plot twist?
The very passion I was once told was "worthless" became profoundly rewarding.
By honoring my inner nature, this project earned me more this month than I imagined possible.
Parents love us, but their fears can create boundaries we aren’t meant to keep.
The girl who sat alone, meticulously gluing broken pieces together around the world, accidentally built an adult who doesn't need a crowd to feel complete.
She didn’t realize that while she was fixing those discarded scraps, she was quietly fortifying her own spirit, sealing the cracks of her isolation with gold.
My message to the world is simple: Follow what brings you joy from the inside out, even when others call it a waste.
The house we carry within isn't built on the approval of others; it is built on the things that make our souls feel alive.
SECTION 4
The Village That Lives On
Some homes are not remembered room by room, but feeling by feeling.
Harinath, T15
Building paths where none existed
I Left Home… But Home Never Left Me
I left home…
but home never left me.
It lingers in my mother—
a restlessly busy bee,
weaving us into
beautiful butterflies.
I remember the worship—
long, tiring, endless as a child.
Eyes on the clock,
heart on the delicacies waiting,
each served with its own
SOP of love.
Back then, I wished it over.
Now, I wish it back.
I remember the lawns—
daily dressed in Rangoli,
gardens blooming in every home,
and us, tangled in hammocks
woven from nothing
but imagination.
We were close to nature,
and closer to each other.
And oh, the festivals!
The madness of Holi,
the laughter,
the unstoppable joy—
all stitched together
into a kichadi of memories.
These moments made me.
They live in me.
I may be far from home…
but home is never far from me.
Closing Reflection
What Remains
The houses we carry within are rarely marked on a map.
They live in old rituals,
secret corners,
unfinished craft projects,
summer
afternoons,
festival colours,
and the people who filled those spaces with meaning.
Years pass.
Cities change.
Families move.
Yet somehow,
when we close our eyes,
we still know exactly how to find our way back.
A Final Thank You
To everyone who wrote these letters—thank you for your honesty.
And to everyone who inspired them without even knowing—
thank you for being the kind of people others feel grateful for.
Somewhere in these pages,
a community remembered itself.
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