Houses, Homes and Angels

We now live in a house that once belonged to my parents and that we have since inherited. Two decades ago, every house in our colony was occupied. In our lane of 11 houses, only four are occupied today. The rest stand empty, waiting for demolition or renovation. In one sense, the houses are still there, but the homes have disappeared.

And yet, quite a bit of construction continues around us—high-rises and flats coming up everywhere, as if the buildings had secretly decided to multiply. Of course there is huge money behind it too. 

Three decades ago, there were no high-rises in our town. Today, even in our sleepy small town, there are many. Within a one-kilometre radius of our house, I counted about seven. The nearest one has 16 floors and 64 flats, but at night I can see only about 10 lights on, which suggests that only around 10 are occupied.

 

So the issue is this: we seem to have more houses, but fewer homes. Houses are buildings. Homes are where people live with care, safety, belonging, and relationships. I wonder which community is truly healthy and flourishing: one with more houses, one with more homes, or one where there are enough houses and every house is also a home?

 

I recently read this: “In a community where there are more houses than homes, the deepest poverty is often not material but relational, and the greatest need is not construction but connection.”

 

Maybe these house owners have homes elsewhere and keep these houses as a backup, a future investment, or a place to return to someday. I am sure many of them do have homes somewhere else.

 

We lived almost half our lives outside Kerala, in Delhi. It was difficult to find a house to rent because most houses were occupied, and whatever was available was costly. But we managed. 

Over time, I observed something that may be true of many urban dwellings: there are houses and homes, but they are often insulated from one another. Doors may open into each other’s front rooms, but one may not know who lives next door unless one peeps in. I tried at times, with reasonable caution and unreasonable curiosity, and it was not always welcomed.

 

This means a community can be full of houses and homes, yet still remain disconnected. A house may have strong walls and warm internal relationships, while the relationships outside its doors remain distant.

We noticed something else too. Very few people visited one another, perhaps because they did not want to intrude on someone’s privacy. Some homes were so carefully arranged that you almost worried you might disturb the cushions simply by sitting on them—or that the cushions might file a complaint.

 

Amid all this, there were also houses—true homes—where we could simply go and settle in without an appointment. We could call and drop by. These were homes where we felt at home: places where we could put up our feet without feeling watched, judged, or quietly unwelcome—though, of course, I tried not to put them up too confidently. To avoid the frown on the face of my family members. 

 

These people were practising open-hearted hospitality.

 

Another quote I came across says: “In a community where there are houses and homes, hospitality becomes a sacred act that transforms buildings into places of love and welcome.”

I read about a recent trend among younger generation. Buy houses as early as possible in life. But live alone with an AI enabled smart home. One study said, 30% of youth prefer communication with AI as their home companion than a human presence. Recently talking about this to a young friend, he told me, uncle, it as much easier to communicate with my AI companion than my friends. 

Now we are in Bihar for a two-week visit, in a community where we lived and worked for a few years. Some faces are new, but some friends and families are still here. Suddenly, it felt as if we were returning home—a second home, perhaps—a place where we can walk into many homes without taking an appointment, and put up my feet, though my spouse disapproves of this act, rightfully though.

 

We are privileged to have such homes across many locations, perhaps because we did not possess a house anywhere until we ended up in our current one.

 

So my confused mind is still grappling with this question: is a house important, or is a home more important—or do we need both? Can we have a house in one place and homes in many places? Can the house we own become a home for many? Or is it better to have homes in many places but not have a house to call one’s own? 

My mind has not yet formed a report on this, but it is slowly learning that a home may be less about title deeds and more about open doors, extra chairs, and the courage to say, “Come in.”

 

I am reminded of a quote from the Good Book: “Be ready with a meal or a bed when it is needed. Why, some have extended hospitality to angels without ever knowing it!”

I am not saying that we are angels. Some mornings we may not even qualify as very patient humans. But when we open our homes to others—even when it is not easy, and perhaps especially when it is not easy—we may discover that some of them are angels in disguise. And occasionally, without knowing it, we may become a small part of someone else’s answer to the question: where is home?

So friends, who are reading this, beware - we might land up unannounced, but call us before you come since we need to clean up.