This article is contributed by Anusuya Datta, a writer and journalist residing in Saskatoon. For further details on First Person stories, refer to the FAQ page.
When we adorned our house with holiday lights in early December in Saskatoon, there was no snowfall. Despite the absence of snow, 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 feels like 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 numerous windows. Sunlight streamed in from all angles, filling every room with a cozy and welcoming radiance, even the basement!
“Ma, this feels like home,” expressed my child.
That smile had been missing from my child’s face for quite a while.
“And not a dentist’s office!” quipped the usual confident teenager, referring to the other “ideal” houses we had viewed.
This dwelling exuded beauty in its simplicity and snugness, with an elegant front lawn and a backyard adorned with swaying poplar trees.
And those windows, of course.
It wasn’t extravagant. 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, with the greenery now showing signs of age and leaves carpeting the ground, I was reminded of my childhood home in India, which boasted a similar natural expanse. That front yard housed a fragrant jasmine bush and towering sunflower plants. The backyard served as Mom’s vegetable garden, which my siblings and I once completely dug up to install a makeshift irrigation system that we thought would water the plants automatically. I still recall Mom’s shock at our ambitious plan.
Nostalgia washed over me, and I felt deeply grateful for the chance to recreate similar memories with my family.
The past few years since our relocation from Delhi to Saskatoon have been a roller-coaster of uncertainties for my family.
Our previous home in India was our initial joint investment as a young couple. The idea of ownership gave us a sense of authority — the ability to mold this space into something uniquely “ours.” It served as a canvas for our dreams and ambitions.
It differed greatly from the home I grew up in. During that time, Delhi, like other major cities in India, was expanding vertically, and the only viable options for middle-class individuals like my husband and me were apartments in high-rise complexes. Nevertheless, we cherished our apartment. It boasted large windows and sliding doors that led to spacious balconies. Sunlight flooded in throughout the day, to the extent that we lamented it during scorching summers.
It became a place where memories accumulated over the years, with each nook holding a tale, and the walls resonating with joy and sorrow.
It wasn’t spacious. It wasn’t cramped. It was just right for the two of us. And later, for the three of us when our child arrived.
It was our sanctuary.
