When houses own us

Would you like a house like that, Moonlight?” Barney asked once, waving his hand at it. He had taken to calling her Moonlight, and Valancy loved it.

“No,” said Valancy, who had once dreamed of a mountain castle ten times the size of the rich man’s “cottage” and now pitied the poor inhabitants of palaces. “No. It’s too elegant. I would have to carry it with me everywhere I went. On my back like a snail. It would own me—possess me, body and soul. I like a house I can love and cuddle and boss. Just like ours here. I don’t envy Hamilton Gossard ‘the finest summer residence in Canada.’ It is magnificent, but it isn’t my Blue Castle.”

Everyone knows that the best houses have gleaming, smooth floors, unmarred by footprints; living areas that betray no signs of human presence; squeaky clean bathrooms; and bedrooms where nothing so crass as sleeping could occur.

In short, the best houses inspire the envy and awe of all who are lucky enough to set eyes on them. I have had the privilege of visiting more than a few of these and always came away with a suitable sense of my lowliness and the burning desire to fix my own house. While the desire dies quickly, my wonder does not.

However, I believe such wondrous sights have become more common than they were a decade ago. It is certainly not because Kashmiris have progressed at such an incredible rate that everyone can afford a mansion. Before, it was only the uber-rich who built houses with monstrous dimensions and obscenely expensive furnishings. It was only to be expected. If you’ve got a lot of money, you throw it at your houses or cars while the less fortunate gawk to their hearts’ content. It is exciting, flattering, even a sport, a competition over who can build the best house.

Now, the middle class and the lower middle class also ape the rich. They must have a cripplingly expensive house, too. The stakes are, of course, a thousand times higher, and they pour decades of their life and savings into this pursuit, only to achieve it when they are old and gray.

And so, “the house” becomes a deity – a demanding, parasitic force that dominates your life. You think, dream, and plan only for this object, your crowning glory and life’s legacy. It saps you of your vitality, and the best years of your life are wasted on the elusive promise of a grand home.

Finally, when perhaps the house is built, it is treated with worshipful care. There is no true freedom or ownership of this place. All is kept pristine, orderly, and jealously guarded from damage. The imported sofa is gloated over from a safe distance; the nice rooms are locked up. You are shackled to your house; it owns you body and soul.

Since when did the ownership of impressive houses, cars, and even bed linen become paramount? Is it worth the hours stuck in a cramped office, paying off loans, the vacations you put off, and all the time you could’ve spent with family for the cold comfort of your neighbor’s envy and regard? There are better reasons to live for, better idols to worship. Why degrade your quality of life, neglect your children’s education, and ruin your peace of mind?

Build a livable house, a place that is familiar and comfortable. Not a sterile, bland duplicate of a thousand others of its kind, down to the colour of the tiles and arrangement of the furniture. Everyone deserves a “blue castle” of their own, after all, it is the one place where outsiders must accommodate your idiosyncrasies, particular strain of neuroses, and questionable house decor.