The Power Of Calmness

Chapter 47

                      

Domicile; a place we call home.

The hearth is admittedly where the heart is. The saying that there’s no place like home has proven to be true uncountable times. No matter where one goes, how far they sail and how very surreal and comfortable they finds a place to be, there is always something about home that calls out to them.

Is it the warmth? The all too familiar air? The comfort and shelter it exudes of? The bliss that floats the soul, wharfing senses to mellow cadence?

You name it! But, we all know there’s a whole lot more to the aforementioned.

A home is said to be a social unit formed by a family living together. A congenial, pleasant environment. Suited to one’s nature, tastes or outlook. Planks, roofing, granular and paint doesn’t make a home but builds a house. What makes a home is actually what it offers; reassurance, strength and hope. A dwelling we come back to after a very tiresome day with the world.

Solitude it provides,
Comfort it showers,
Reliance it gives.

Mahmoud parked by the side of the house with a sigh, staring at its view from the car for a while before alighting it. Pushing open the slight ajar door wondering why the gateman wasn’t present, it all came slapping him hard on the face. Every nook and cranny, every single crevice, was breathing with a story to be told. Each film played right in front of his eyes; from memories of receiving punishments from Mummy for being rebellious and stubborn on the carpet grass, to playing hide and seek with his siblings as they sought him, to those of him and Baba having talks as he got older, it all came back to life.

And then, he began to wonder. ‘Who was that guy?’

Gulping loudly, he geared on further into the house, heading to the doorway. He was met by their maid, who said her pleasantries and ushered him in. “Would you like me to offer you anything?” She had asked. Mahmoud gave a declined nod in response, clapping both hands in gratitude. “Alright Sir, Hajia would be down shortly.”

So enthralled by the fascinating ambience of the living area, he wasn’t keen on giving her a response because of how trapped he with it all. The décor was different from the last time he was here but truth be told though, when was the last time he stepped foot into the vicinity? 3 years? Or perhaps 4? He couldn’t say.

A family portrait stood tall on the wall above the flat TV screen. In it was their mother, his three sisters; Khadija, Husna and Firdaus and, his brothers; Ahmad and Khalid all cheerful and happy with laughing faces. Another solo photo of his father all domineering, sat beside the former. Intensely peering into the portrait, he couldn’t miss the striking resemblance they shared together. Was it the eyes or the slender nose? He couldn’t decipher yet, he knew deep down within him that he may look physically like his father but, was nothing close to the man he was. One of the framed pictures caught his eyes but, before he could really take a look at it, he heard footsteps receding down the stairs.

Breathing out a sigh with his head hung low between his thighs, he gathered all of his bearing for what was about to ensue. There she was, elegantly marching her way down over to where he seated. Mahmoud watched her descend the stairs, his loving mother. A woman made of both fire and ice; an unimaginable component that makes wonders, a woman of virtue, one who would do anything for the well-being of her fruits.  

Mahmoud leapt to his feet, his hands crossed behind his back, eyes perched to the floor. A cold sweat drenched his forehead. Even with the air-con on, he couldn’t stop fidgeting with himself.
 
“You didn’t ask to be offered anything?” She asked, rounding the other side of the table to a settee.