The house that still lives in me

There is a place I return to, not by travel, but by memory. We called it Maha Gedara (the big house). It was my grandparents’ home, where our childhood unfolded in quiet, ordinary ways that now feel deeply meaningful.

The house itself was simple. Three rooms, a front veranda, a small storage, and spaces that held everything, living, dining, and kitchen, flowing into one another. Nothing was separated too strictly. Life moved easily through it, just like we did. We were many cousins, sisters, and brothers, and when we gathered, the house expanded in its own way, making space for all of us.

We were the third generation to live there. That always stayed with me. The walls had already held stories before ours began.

We also called the house “Rathnapaya“. The name came from one of my uncles, “Rathna,” and “Paya,” meaning house. My grandfather chose that name, though I still wonder why him, out of all six uncles. Maybe it was something simple, something unspoken. That thought still lingers quietly in my mind.

The house stood on a small hill. Not high, but enough to feel slightly lifted from everything else. I remember the front garden, open and full of light, and the land stretching around it in a way that felt endless when I was a child.

At the front, there was a large ”Kaju” tree (Cashew). It was more than a tree. It was shade, play, waiting, and gathering. So many small moments lived under it. Even now, when I think of that place, the tree appears first. 

And then there was the well “Kumbuke linda”. It sat close to the field, quiet and steady. The water was always cold. Bathing there became a kind of ritual. Every visit included that moment, feeling the chill, laughing, adjusting, remembering. It was never just about washing. It was about being there, fully.

Recently, during a class exercise given by Vicki, we were asked to create a place using simple materials, something that held our strongest memories. Without thinking too much, I found myself building Maha Gedara. Not exactly as it was, but as I felt it. It made me realize something. That place is not just in the past. It still exists, in a quiet way, within me.

Maha Gedara was never grand in size or design. But it held people, stories, and time. It taught me that a house does not become meaningful because of how it looks, but because of how it holds life. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can still feel the breeze through the veranda, the cool water from the well, and the sound of everyone gathered together.

Some places never leave.