A home I can call mine.
In the end, aren’t we all looking to belong?
Stories were a significant part of my childhood — stories of gods and demons, of birds and bears, of neighbourhoods and kingdoms. My Dad had a bedtime story for me every day — I believe they helped me build my ethics, understand the culture and learn new ideas.
Stories are powerful, crucial to building connections. The more stories I hear, the more I see how each of us are similar, irrespective of what we look or behave like. I see how we’ve come where we have, my place in the world, and where we could be. Stories help me know, feel and in some ways, own.
In the end, aren't we all looking to find a place, a person, a community we can call our own? A home where our heart can lie, a carapace that comforts us away from the world.
In pursuit of a connection with a place we’ve inhabited for years, my friend found stories that strike a chord. Get a peek into the Hyderabad I never truly lived in — the Hyderabad that forms the soul of the city; the stone houses that got left behind as we built tall buildings of glass; the narrow lanes that sheath warmth and distress, a sentiment gated communities could never imbibe — a lost, fragmented soul figuring a way to hold on to its roots while it shoots for the stars.
Maybe, after exchanging enough tales old and new, I’ll be able to call this place mine, I might find a home in this cultural cocktail.
A friend of mine, Harihar ( he tries to be quirky and weird, follow at your own discretion), made his first short film. Shower some love, and drop him some feedback! ❤
