My Childhood Home Essay Example For Students

My Childhood Home Essay It is past 6:00 a. m. I am sitting on the terrace of my home watching the sunrise. The sun, almost a strange, a dark shade of orange semicircle, peeped itself over the top of the top of river Ganges, like a restless child at a window. The white sky turning its color to orange-white like a painter is painting the white canvas with orange color. The rays of the sun gradually shifting itself over the rooftop of a hut near the bank of Ganges. The cool breeze from the Indian Lilac and Jasmine tree crosses by hair and making my hair to run across my face. I can hear the chirping of the sparrow and cawing of the crow; all these different sounds of bird are like listening to the old music on the radio. I stand up and walk to the edge of the terrace, and I see two small girls running around the pool of red chilies on a white bed sheet that looked like a violent burning fire wanting to engulf everything around it. As I walk down through the spiral staircase I notice the grooves and furrows in the wall giving me the feeling of riding a bicycle in the valley. I can also hear the clattering sound of the utensils being washed by the maid in the kitchen. The dining area being in the open, reminisced the olden days when my grandpa and grandma loved eating under the starlit sky. There is a neem tree surrounding the dining area where I see the baby birds in the nest waiting to be fed. On the other side of the dinning area, the fan on the ceiling was turning like a Ferris wheel. The pink and white colors of the walls look like they crave for more vibrant colors. The old wooden cupboard standing alone in the dinning area with swirling designs that starts from the center of the cupboard and then moving out looks like a magical box waiting to be opened. As I enter the kitchen, I see bottles of different spices on the shelves reflecting the light coming through the window like light being reflected from a glistening water body. The utensils hanging on the hook seemed as they are dancing to the music of spattering oil on the frying pan. The aroma of the food and the fragrance of the spices all made my mouth watering to have it immediately. My mother, wearing a vermillion color saree with her hair tied in a bun, the mix-match of her green and golden colored glass bangles are distinctly visible on her hand, while she stirs the black beans curry. Walking towards the living room, I notice a room with no lock on the door. I enter into the room; the shades on the window have turned yellow with age. There is a small armchair that is set beside the bookcase stocked with old storybooks; a bed with heart-shaped back, two little red chairs and a yellow table. There is a white board with pink border on the left side of the bookcase. I remember my father bought it for me when I was 6. On this white board I learned how to write. The hand-made paintings on the wall all waiting to be revived by a mischievous group of children. This is my childhood room where I used to play with my brothers and sisters. This is the room where I used to spend my whole day playing with my cousins or just coloring the walls with whatever color I could get hold of. I can see the messages that I had written on the walls with the pencil. One of the messages says, â€Å"Love you Mom and Dad ?. † Stepping outside my childhood room, I walk towards my grandparent’s room. The room looks quiet and serene. It has the distinct smell of jasmine. Jasmine is grandmother’s favorite flower. .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d , .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .postImageUrl , .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d , .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d:hover , .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d:visited , .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d:active { border:0!important; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d:active , .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .u5922d4a8a5281111928b5ecb5dc1e25d:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: Police Brutality EssayThe wall of the room is much lighter in color than that of the other room. There is an impressionist oil painting on the wall created by mother, facing a much larger one on the opposite wall. The black and red diamond-patterned carpet on the floor looked like ladybug. I remember how I used to play hopscotch on the diamonds, and my sister lying on that carpet tantruming at the age of 3 because she didn’t want to go for her nap. Two overstuffed armchairs are set around a coffee table; I remember my grandma and grandpa used to have tea sitting on this chair every Saturday morning. On the left side of grandparent’s room is a living room with its light purple wall, adding energy to the room. Two brown color sofas add more to the beauty of the living room. In between the sofas, there is a circular dark brown color coffee table with a bowl full of water in which chrysanthemums are floating like lotus floating on lake water. The big red vase with yellow flowers is making me imagine that I am standing in farm full of mustard flowers during the summer and butterflies are dancing around me. Once I saw a scary movie on the television with lights off in the living room. After that I was always scared of going into the living room, when nobody was sitting in there, but now, I am not scared at all; the passing time has ended my fear. Small library in the left corner of the living room has two big bookcases with glass doors; grown old with time. The glass has lost its transparency; the leg of the bookcase has splintered showing the actual wood underneath the paint. The bookcases are stocked with both old and new editions of general knowledge books, encyclopedia, and novels by Chetan Bhagat, Hindi writers like Ramdhari Singh Dinkar, Mahadevi Singh Verma etc. This is my father’s reading area, where nobody dares to disturb him, even now. In the backyard lemon tree has spread its branches in order to embrace the papaya tree, and the lemons on the lemon tree looked like yellow polka dots on a green fabric. The mix-match of red roses, poppy and chrysanthemum on one side and the mix-match of marigold, daffodil and orchid on the other side of the garden are giving it a joyful look. I notice a high-backed rocker in the right corner of the garden and a bench worn smooth by age on the other. There is a footpath that leads to a hand pump, somewhat rusty, but still providing a cool refreshing drink. Grandpa is pumping the hand pump to soak its rusty throat with water; it gurgles for a minute or two, then belches back a flood of sparkling spring water. My father in his favorite black t-shirt and white shorts is watering his favorite marigold plants. Working in the garden and reading books are the two my father’s favorite past time. I walk to my father to help him in his work. With time things change, but the old memories, almost making us wish we could move back in time to enjoy a few moments of peace and innocence. The laughter, the happiness, the small fights, the hiding of toys in secret places all over the house, the sharing of snacks, bedtime stories by my grandmother all make me feel nostalgic about this home. These things have always made me come back, and I always find my inner peace in all the chaos here at my home.