Shelter, which we call our home.

We were searching for a particular destination when we reached an unknown road up on the hills of Mussoorie. I saw this house and stopped. The house was looking pretty, peaceful and it felt like people are happily living out there. 

I often find myself looking at random houses of unknown roads and think of the lifestyle the people living there must be having. I imagine people talking to each other, doing household works, baking cake, sleeping or even looking at me from the window of their bedroom. Every house has stories, stories of their struggle, their survival and their existence. I often wonder how does one house look from inside. what furniture it has, what is the color of the bedsheet and how the rooms smell. which room gets the most sunlight and which one is the darkest. I imagine people struggling to breath in that same house, I imagine their shaking hands, teary eyes, and the fight they must be having with their own self. I think of the people living there fighting for love, fighting for trust and belongingness.

Is it true that every house has the same story with different perspective? Is it true that every close door is hiding the stories of people which they don't even tell themselves? Is it true that you, me, and people like us find ourselves the most comfortable yet fairly spartan at times at the same shelter, which we call our home?