The Address Everyone Knew
By Lokanath Mishra
In the government quarters of Vasant Vihar, Delhi, Gitarani and her husband Sanjay had built a quiet life far away from their hometown Puri. Their small two-room flat carried warmth, dignity—and an open door that rarely closed.
Back in Puri, Sanjay’s address had become famous.
“If you go to Delhi, just go to Sanjay’s house,” people would say. “You won’t need anything else.”
At first, Sanjay felt proud. Helping relatives felt like a duty, even an honor. But for Gitarani, the constant stream of guests slowly became a burden. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months of endless cooking, cleaning, and adjusting.
Their home no longer belonged to them.
One evening, after yet another group of guests had left, Gitarani spoke firmly,
“Sanjay, this cannot go on. We are losing our peace. This is not hospitality anymore—it’s exploitation.”
This time, Sanjay did not argue much. The memory of those difficult days—when Gitarani had fallen ill and no one stayed back to help—still weighed heavily on his mind.
He had learned his lesson.
A few days later, his cousin Ramesh called.
“Bhai, I’m coming to Delhi with my family. We’ll stay at your place.”
There was a pause.
Earlier, Sanjay would have agreed instantly. But now, his voice was calm and steady.
“Ramesh, you are most welcome to Delhi. I will meet you and help you with anything you need. But I won’t be able to accommodate you at home.”
There was silence on the line.
“But Bhai… we always stay with you,” Ramesh said, surprised.
“I understand,” Sanjay replied gently, “but things have changed. Gita’s health and our family’s routine come first now. I hope you understand.”
Ramesh didn’t argue further, but he was clearly displeased.
When Ramesh arrived in Delhi, he did not go to Sanjay’s house. Instead, he went straight to the quarters of the Member of Parliament from Puri, where many visitors from their region often sought temporary accommodation. Through local connections, he managed to stay there for a couple of days. Later, he shifted to the mess associated with the Jagannath Temple, where pilgrims and visitors from Odisha were sometimes allowed to stay at minimal cost.
Word spread quickly.
Back in Puri, whispers began—
“Sanjay has changed.”
“He refuses to host his own relatives now.”
“Delhi has made him arrogant.”
Some even compared his home unfavorably with the MP quarters and the temple mess, saying, “At least those places still help people.”
When these words reached Sanjay, he felt a brief sting—but it did not last long.
That evening, as he sat with Gitarani and their son, watching television in peace—without noise, without pressure—he realized something important.
For the first time in years, his home felt calm.
Gitarani brought him a cup of tea and sat beside him.
“Do you regret it?” she asked softly.
Sanjay shook his head.
“No. I finally understand that helping others should not mean neglecting our own family. Those who truly care will understand. And those who don’t… never really did.”
Days passed, and the flow of guests reduced drastically. Some relatives stopped calling altogether. Others learned to make their own arrangements—whether in MP quarters, temple guest houses, or hotels.
Life became simpler.
Their home, once crowded and chaotic, now echoed with laughter again—not of visitors, but of their own child.
Sanjay had not stopped being kind.
He had simply learned where to draw the line.
And in that invisible boundary, he found something he had lost long ago—
Peace.