Hope, a Home Within

“The home is where the hope is .”

Why hope instead of the more expected ‘heart’? How could hope be considered someone’s home? — shouldn’t it say “home is where the heart is” ?

‘Where does hope come from? From the breaking dawn? From the crossing, breaking, failing, gaining, and finally releasing of the tides? From the curl of the sky around the horizon? From the call of the strange birds? From faith?’

How does this differ from typical notions of home?

Let’s get into it .

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A few years back, the family was gathered around a fire on a cold November evening. My grandpa was seated in his favorite chair, reading glasses on, the book in his lap propped against his stomach. The firelight reflects off the silver of his hair and the gold of his reading glasses.

My aunt Radha sits in her favorite chair by the fire, gazing sadly into the flame.

“Alas! They died. Poor little kid,” she murmured regretfully.

Grandpa kept his book aside, giving Radha his full attention. “Who died, Radha?” he asked gently. “What’s happened?”

Radha dabbed her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “Oh Baba, I just feel so terrible for little Krishna. Both Ram and Rita died in an accident,” she lamented.

My grandfather nodded mournfully. “You two were like sisters. I watched her grow up beside you, go off to university, get married.”

He sighed deeply. “And now to lose both her and her husband, leaving poor Krishna an orphan ,” he grieved.

(He sighs again ) “Those were good people,” he said.

I’ve watched Krishna grow up from a tiny toddler into a bright young boy.

My body was cold, sadness like a cold wind in my bones.

The scene around the fire, painted in the melancholy shades of loss, held us in the grasp of sorrow. Grandpa’s eyes, reflecting the dance of flames, mirrored the heaviness within our hearts as my aunt Radha shared the tragic news of Krishna’s parents. The room, once filled with warmth and familial joy, now echoed with the ghostly whispers of sorrow.

Somewhere in between the noticeable grief, the air hung heavy with unspoken questions, as if the walls themselves were waiting for relief. Grandma’s gentle voice, a balm for our aching hearts, broke the silence, “Have hope, things will be okay.”

“Hope, what’s that?” my cousin responded, his voice laced with the bitterness of despair. “But it won’t bring them back, will it?”

In the dull symphony of our shared sorrow, Grandma’s response, “Hope lies in having faith” — twinkled like a ray of light into our grieving hearts, stirring the glimmer of optimism. And so , with hesitant nods, we let Grandpa’s soothing voice carry us through our sorrow.

“Come, sit by me, kids,” grandpa insisted.

“I can see you’re puzzled about this and hope may seem a bit theoretical to you. Let me tell you a story from my life and your father’s that may help explain things”, grandpa said gently.

Wait ! What? There’s a story about hope helping my parents.

I couldn’t resist and asked,“ You and Dad? ”

“Yes, when your father was about your age, we had the perfect family. With him, your grandma, and your aunts — our home felt like heaven. We felt like the luckiest family, full of joy. Our home was the warmest, most comforting place. But then, I went abroad for work, leaving my family behind.

When your dad was in his mid twenties, he wanted to start a business and invested a lot of money we had saved. We hoped with all our hearts it would succeed, but he put every last penny into it and it failed completely”, he paused.

“But grandpa, you said hope makes everything seem possible! How could dad’s business fail if you all hoped for it to work out?” I asked( curiously).

He smiled gently and said, “Just because you hope for something, doesn’t mean it’ll go perfectly. Your father dreamed big, but things didn’t go as planned.”

“Then what’s the point of hoping at all?” I questioned.

“When it was all falling apart — the business, our savings from my foreign jobs — we still couldn’t stop hoping. Even at our worst, we keep believing things will get better.

Good things take time.

Your dad went into depression after losing his investment. We feared what he might do — he wouldn’t get out of bed, and ignored our calls. But one day, he found the courage to tell me everything. Getting it off his chest, and seeing our hopeful faces, he was determined to restart with a new idea. He even worked as a taxi driver for years while I worked abroad.

Eventually we managed to open a small restaurant. The first year was slow, but your dad kept inventing ways to attract more customers, never losing hope, keeping the faith. And gradually years by year, it took off! Now we have our restaurants doing well, and we’re content.

Remember, hope gets tested through hardship. But it lives on if you let it. And with patience, it can turn into something beautiful!

It gave your dad strength when he had nothing. So never lose it!” he added.

Grandpa’s eyes shined with empathy. “Likewise, if that boy can hear hope’s whisper through the howling winds, it’ll help him to pave the road back to joy.”

“ When something unexpected happens like that, it’s totally disorienting. It feels like the ground falls out from under you. But I believe Krishna will soon regain his sense of stability in time,” he said.

“ Maybe! ”, I let out a long sigh.

But it still hurts to think about .

“You really think so?” I whispered.

Grandpa leans on the chair, his fingers intertwined, his voice cracked with old age and sadness yet hopeful.

“ I do. So for that boy, hope can be a little warm corner tucked away in his mind, always there when he needs it.”

(Places hand reassuringly) “Head high, kiddo. You’ll also weather this storm if you let that light your way.”

I couldn’t deny but agree.

I let Grandpa pull me into a side-hug as we sat together quietly. He was right — the dawn indeed comes, however dimly you can see it through the night’s shadows. Somehow, hope goes on.

So, did that little hope help him to cope with his parents death? Did it give him that life he’d ever wanted? Well ! How could it?

But it sure helped him throughout his journey .That little hope did help the boy cope, one small step at a time .Though his young heart was shattered, he grasped it as he stared out the window at the black sky . That little boy grew up with the hope that he would one day have a family of his own.

It helped him process loss not as an end, but as part of a greater story — one filled with rich chapters if we keep turning pages .Though nothing could completely fill the absence of his parents, hope had a way of softening even the rawest edges of that grief . When he felt discouraged, it lifted his spirits.

Hope became his home — not a physical house, but a shelter for his weary heart .

Within this space, he tended to his wounds and nurtured the belief that he would be okay. It reminded him that his story was not over.While some dismissed it as too flimsy, this boy accepted it. It was a tiny seed he planted in his soul. Over years, it grew into a strong, fruitful tree under which he rested and to which he tethered his dreams. It weathered many storms with him.

That conversation with my grandparents opened me to the power of hope. As I grew older, I saw how hope manifested itself in so many lives.

I witnessed an immigrant who came with nothing but clung to the hope of a better future for his family. A child who lost his parents, yet hoped he could make them proud one day. Hope never promised that life would be easy or fair but gave purpose, courage, and an unshakeable faith.

Hope became the sound of many winds ripping across a mountain pass, being home for many .

‘What if, for some, hope serves as an inner home?’ Well ! It did and will do ever after.