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He lived there alone for two full years. It was a lovely home. He decorated it with memories; he bought so many books he didn’t have cupboards to fit them; he cooked and cooked till others could eat his cooking too. The house itself was tiny and modest. It did have a fridge which was a luxury for him. The fridge was mostly stocked with beer, some vegetables and cheese. He missed it all at this point. Not the other difficult moments that house saw him through (a miserable job), but the peaceful, inspirational and happy memories it brought.

Cochin was a rough and tough period in his life. Having that home, those four walls gave him strength even on the worst days. It provided him a safe place, a cocoon and a freedom he hadn’t known till then. He had lived at home with his clothes magically getting clean, never having to clean up and a hot meal when he returned home. It was hard at first. But it got better.

He was mostly happy within those walls. He left the madness of the world outside, the demands of his angry boss and it felt okay. With the move in cities and jobs, his living conditions changed again. He was back to living at home, like a king. A lot changed for the better but he still ached for what that home gave him. A unique kind of freedom and control over his life. Up until then, he never had it. It was the first house where he lived without any support; it was a breath of fresh air.

He remembered his last five minutes in that home. He felt a deep sense of loss. Like he had said goodbye to a dear friend, a confidante, a care-giver.

He felt that pain all over again as he stared at his cupboard full of books. He missed his home.