The House My Father Built: It Lives On, Not Just in the Lanes of Cuttack, But in the Very Marrow of Who I Have Become

I remember the ink-blue borders of my father’s off-white cotton dhoti brushing against his ankles, the soft rustle of his blue half-shirt, and the distinct slap of his Bata chappals fading as he stepped out of our house each morning to teach. My father was a revered teacher of mathematics and English at the Secondary Board High School in Cuttack.

When I was two, my parents bought a small plot near the school and took loans to build a modest three-room, tiled-roof house. That house became my identity, my solace, and my haven.

Built in 1960, it still stands—shaped by decades of life and a few renovations. I spent 30 years there, and though I left to start my life long ago, it remains the core of who I am. Within its walls, my mother’s daily prayers, my father’s discipline, and the blessings of my grandparents sanctified the space. It witnessed every rhythm of life—ceremonies, weddings, funerals, joys, and sorrows. Home became a sacred place, renewed through the memories we carry. It is where love, memory, and belonging continue to dwell, even after we’ve stepped away.

My home has shaped me into the person I am today.

The Foundation

My father’s journey began far from Cuttack. As a boy in the 1930s, he walked five kilometers from his village to school. His passion for learning took him away from his mother’s care to live with relatives in Khurda. Despite hardship, he excelled in his exams, studied in Cuttack, and became his family’s first graduate.

He longed to pursue a master’s degree in mathematics in Allahabad, but his father—a vernacular school teacher—couldn’t afford it. Undeterred, my father began teaching in his twenties. When I was born in Sarankul, famous for its Shiva temple, he was offered a position at the newly established Secondary Board High School. So we moved to Cuttack, where he built our home—a monument to perseverance, learning, and aspiration. Its walls held the hopes of our family and became the foundation for the life that unfolded within.

I spent my childhood, adolescence, and college years in that home and take pride in being a Cuttackia.

Tulsi in the Courtyard

When my parents moved into the new house, my mother brought with her a small wooden altar holding bronze idols of Lakshmi, Vishnu, and Ganesh. Her first act was to consecrate the house—not with furniture or utensils, but with prayer.

The courtyard became her temple. At its center stood a Tulsi plant, slender and sacred, wrapped in red cloth on a brick altar. Each morning, after her bath, my mother offered water and flowers to Tulsi before turning to Vishnu. “Tulsi is Vishnu’s consort,” she would say, “and no offering reaches him without passing through her.”

In the evenings, she lit an oil lamp at the altar. I remember crouching beside her, transfixed by the glow. One night, curious, I let the cloth around my injured thumb touch the flame. It seared instantly, leaving a scar that remains sixty years later—a lesson in curiosity and caution.

Our year revolved around rituals—Ganesh and Saraswati Pujas, Raja in June, Khudurukuni Puja in September, Durga Puja and Kumar Purnima in October, Kartik Purnima in November.

Each day, my mother performed Lakshmi Puja, reciting the story of the goddess who stood by her humble devotees. She named our cow Lakshmibanti and her calf Aliali, teaching me that kindness and justice are divine acts.

The Home That Held Us All

Our house in Cuttack was a refuge for relatives from our ancestral villages. My mother, always in motion, cooked, cleaned, and cared for five children, cows, and even stray dogs and cats. The veranda overflowed with the sounds of life—siblings arguing and laughing, cousins visiting, uncles dropping by unannounced.

As the only daughter among five siblings, I learned adaptability early. My brothers teased me, yet my parents’ quiet protection gave me confidence. The house, alive with people and noise, taught me how to live with others—to give space, to forgive, to love.

The festivals of my childhood still pulse within me. Each celebration carried its own scent, taste, and lesson.

Before festivals, I would hear the rhythmic pounding of rice in a mortar as my mother prepared steamed rice cakes filled with cheese and molasses. The aroma filled the house, and I would plead for a taste. She would smile and say, “Of course. Children are gods first.”

Our year revolved around rituals—Ganesh and Saraswati Pujas, Raja in June, Khudurukuni Puja in September, Durga Puja and Kumar Purnima in October, Kartik Purnima in November. Each brought special food, songs, and kinship. Through these festivals, I learned the women focused rituals and a sense of my self worth.  

During Raja, the festival of swings, my brothers tied ropes to the neem tree and made a wooden seat. I would rush for the first turn, ribbons in my hair, laughter filling the air. Raja celebrated girlhood, and through it I learned joy and freedom.

Khudurukuni Sundays carried a gentler devotion. My friends and cousins sat in a circle, arranging puffed rice, fruits, and flowers on brass plates as my mother guided our worship of Maa Mangala, protector of unmarried girls. Our uneven voices rose together in song, teaching us courage and solidarity.

Kartik Purnima was the most enchanting. My mother would wake us before dawn, whispering, “Wake up—we must beat the crowd.” She would prepare banana-stem boats decorated with flowers, turmeric rice, and tiny oil lamps. Packed tightly in a cycle rickshaw, the five of us rode to the Mahanadi River. Amid the colorful throngs, she placed me knee-deep in the water to release my boat. I watched its light drift away among hundreds until I could no longer tell which one was mine.

At home, the smell of jaggery and sesame filled the kitchen as sweets simmered. That day celebrated Odisha’s seafaring past—a ritual of gratitude and hope. Our house, filled with songs, laughter, and the fragrance of devotion, taught me that spirituality could be both joyous and gentle.

Lessons from the Moringa Tree

Our home garden was a living classroom—berries, mangoes, coconuts, and bananas grew alongside greens my mother called “anabana saag.” But it was the moringa tree that taught me most.

In winter, its trunk swarmed with black caterpillars. Their spiny bodies both fascinated and frightened me. Each sting burned, soothed only by my mother’s castor oil. Watching them transform into butterflies became my earliest lesson in endurance and metamorphosis.

Even now, the scent of rain or the sight of a butterfly takes me back to that courtyard, reminding me of growth born from patience and pain.

The House in Mourning

Our house saw many rituals of life—and also of loss. When I was eleven, my youngest brother, only seven, passed away. My mother’s grief was immense, her silence unending. In that stillness, I began to see our house differently. Every corner seemed to hold memory, every wall absorbed sorrow. Even the moringa tree appeared to move slower, as if in empathy.

Decades later, my father’s passing in 1993 and another brother’s in 1999 deepened those scars. Yet our home held us together. My father’s neatly folded dhotis in the old Godrej almirah—bought with my first lecturer’s salary—seemed to absorb grief and turn it into quiet strength. From that house, I learned that sorrow, too, can be sacred; it teaches resilience, tenderness, and depth.

Scars and Wings

The house still stands in Cuttack, its tiled roof now replaced with concrete. My mother spent her final decade there, rooted in peace. She refused to move elsewhere, saying the house was her anchor.

In August 2025, when she passed away, I was privileged to perform her last rites. Her ashes now rest in the courtyard beneath the trees that had witnessed our lives. The mango, banana, berry, and coconut trees continue to sway over her, as if keeping watch. Anabana saag grow around her to give her the solace and comfort. 

The kitchen still holds echoes of her parathas still make my friends nostalgic, and the garden still hums with lessons of transformation. That home—more than bricks and beams—remains a witness, a teacher, a guide.

I carry it within me: in my capacity for care, in the rhythms I follow, in the wings I have learned to grow. Life has been shaped by chance, curiosity, love, and necessity, but that sacred place remains its foundation.

I was the child who touched fire; now I am the woman who flies. And through it all, the ancestral home lives on—not just in the lanes of Cuttack, but in the very marrow of who I have become.

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Annapurna Devi Pandey teaches Cultural Anthropology at the University of California, Santa Cruz. She holds a Ph.D. in sociology from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, and was a postdoctoral fellow in social anthropology at Cambridge University, the U.K. Her current research interests include diaspora studies, South Asian religions, and immigrant women’s identity-making in the diaspora in California. In 2017-18 she received a Fulbright scholarship for fieldwork in India. Dr. Pandey is also an accomplished documentary filmmaker. Her 2018 award-winning documentary “Road to Zuni,” dealt with the importance of oral traditions among Native Americans.