Where Laughter Used To Live

I grew up in a house that never slept — cousins sprawled across the floor on Sundays watching TV, someone always making chai, my grandmother calling from the kitchen, and laughter echoing through every corner. During the week, we’d sit together doing homework, arguing over erasers, and pretending we didn’t hear our mothers calling us for dinner.

My older cousins used to tell me stories about the haunted rooms in the house — the ones no one was allowed to enter. I’d get scared, hide behind them, and still beg for one more story. We played endless games of carrom and ludo, and every time I lost, I’d cry. Even then, I was obsessed with winning.

I was a quiet child — polite, observant, always a little too aware. I thought I had the best family in the world. And I still believe I do.

One morning, I was late for school. My father picked me up and ran down the street, his breath short, his arms strong. I remember looking at his tired face and asking, “Daddy, are you tired because of me?” He laughed, but I saw it — the love and the weight of it. And I felt so sad that he had to run for me.

In the evenings, I’d sit on the terrace with my aunt, pointing at planes that cut through the sky. “One day,” I told her, “I’ll go to America. I’ll see the whole world.” I was only six, but I already believed I was meant for something bigger.

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And I did it.

I built a life that glimmers — a big home filled with expensive furniture, a closet full of silk and heels, a car with Italian leather seats. My life looks even better than my wildest dreams and it is more than what I asked for.

But sometimes, when the evening light filters through my window just right, I remember what I truly wanted.

It wasn’t this kind of quiet.

It was the kind filled with laughter spilling from the kitchen and children shouting over each other. It was the kind of chaos that felt like belonging.

Now, I wake up early, make my own tea, and sit in stillness. The house is peaceful — maybe too peaceful. There are moments it feels like it’s waiting for something. Maybe someone. Maybe a few small feet running down the hallway. Maybe the kind of life I came from.

I think often about the home I want to build one day — full of noise, warmth, and small, messy moments that mean everything. A place where my parents can visit and laugh like they used to. A home where love doesn’t echo — it fills the space.

Because even after all these years, even after all the flights and all the milestones, my heart still wants what it knew first:

A house full of people.

A heart full of peace.

A life full of love