Aashiyana Dhoondta Hain – On the Universal Dream of Home and the Heartbreaks Along the Way

Aashiyana Dhoondta Hain – On the Universal Dream of Home and the Heartbreaks Along the Way

A home is the dream of every living being. We have watched ants patiently carrying  particles to build their colonies. We have watched birds making nests for their little ones. Each of these actions reflect the universality of  our need for a home and a place to return to. 

Home is not merely a real estate transaction. It is a dream of shelter, a place where you are not only safe and known but also belong.

From the caves of our ancestors to the thatched huts inhabited by lakhs across India, to the gleaming towers of glass and concrete rising in our cities today, the form of homes may have changed, but not the dream. It is where our children learn to walk, where we celebrate our festivals and create memories. 

A home is the culmination of years of sacrifice, saved salaries, postponed aspirations and countless compromises. That is why, when a home becomes embroiled in disputes, litigation or uncertainty, we get shaken to our very core. The distress is not merely financial; it is emotional and deeply personal.

I say this not as a philosopher, but as a revenue officer who spent years inside the machinery of land and law.

In the revenue courts, I have seen what happens when that dream is threatened. I have seen brothers and sisters who once shared a childhood bed, a dinner table and a mother's lap turn into strangers across a courtroom aisle, fighting over ancestral property with a bitterness that poisons not just the land in question but everything around it. Such disputes do not merely divide property. They divide people. They transform what was once a family into warring factions.

I have seen relationships of thick friends broken  irreparably over a boundary wall, a disputed survey number, a leaky ceiling or a few square feet of earth that neither of them will ever truly enjoy once the conflict begins.

These are not merely legal disputes. They are human tragedies. Every file in a revenue court is a story of a dream gone wrong. 

And then there is a particular kind of heartbreak that belongs to our times, the heartbreak of the homebuyer who trusted a builder, only to find themselves trapped in endless delays and broken promises.

Unsuspecting dreamers are led into years of anxiety through delayed possession, irregularities in approvals, misuse of FSI, unauthorized changes in plans, encroachment upon utility spaces and a maze of legal complications. The joy of receiving the keys to one's dream home, or simply living peacefully in it, is replaced by frustration, helplessness and uncertainty.

Behind every delayed project lies not merely a stalled construction site, but thousands of suspended dreams. Many of us know such people or may also be one among them.

You save for years, invest your provident fund and your savings. You sign on the dotted line with trust and belief. You hand over your money and your faith and then you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The builder who promised possession in two years becomes the builder who stops returning calls in four. The project that was supposed to have a garden, a community hall and a children's play area becomes a faraway dream.  

The utility spaces that were meant to belong to residents are quietly absorbed into something more profitable. And the dreamer who only wanted a secure home in old age is left holding a loan, a legal notice and a hollow where hope once lived.

I have watched this happen to people who deserved better educated people, careful people, people who read every clause.That includes me.

And yet, the builders know how to delay without technically defaulting, how to exploit loopholes and how to ensure that the very legal system meant to protect buyers becomes their longest ordeal. Hundreds of thousands of homes have been promised, leaving countless families in limbo.

RERA was meant to be an answer, and it has certainly helped. But for those already caught in the web before its arrival, the wait continues. Their laughter remains on hold. Their children's school admissions are planned around possession dates that keep shifting. Their lives remain suspended in the waiting room of a dream.

It was in this context, carrying my own quiet worry about my home, that I found myself travelling to Kallahalli, near Bengaluru, to the temple of Bhoovarahaswamy.

Lord Varaha, the divine Boar, is the avatar of Vishnu who descended into the primal cosmic waters to rescue Bhudevi, the Earth Goddess, from the depths of darkness. He lifted her upon his tusks and restored her to her rightful place.

The symbolism is not lost on those who arrive at this temple carrying land troubles on their lips and hope in their hearts.

This is the deity who rescues what was taken, who lifts what was submerged and who restores what was lost. What I saw there was a sea of faith. People came carrying bricks , actual bricks, that go into walls and foundations. Some carried stones. Others brought handfuls of soil. They laid them before the Lord with the same reverence with which they would offer flowers or lamps.I stood there and felt something shift within me.

This was not superstition. It was the human heart doing what it has always done when the law fails, when builders deceive, when courts move slowly and years pass turning towards something larger than itself and asking:

Please, Please let my home be ready.

Please let this dispute end.

Please let me have what every ant, every bird and every cave-dwelling ancestor understood as a basic need, a place to come home to.

I prayed too. Simply. Honestly. Without embarrassment.

On the drive back from Kallahalli, a song from the Hindi film, Gharonda, surfaced from my memory. It is about two young people who come to Mumbai, with large dreams and limited means, trying to find a home and build a life with everything they possess while happily singing, "Do deewane shehar mein, raat mein ya dopahar mein, aab-o-daana dhoondte hain, ek aashiyana dhoondte hain."  This song full of hope lingered in my mind reflecting the kind of hope one possesses only when young enough to believe that the city will eventually open its arms.

That if one works hard enough, believes deeply enough and waits long enough, the home will come.

Yet the film ends in a heartbreak. The protagonist hero, compromises his values and his relationships to make a home, only to discover that dreams built without integrity can never survive. His despair is reflected in another version of the song which compares life to an empty vessel,  "Din khaali khaali bartan hain, aur raat hai jaise andha kuan..."

I remembered those words on the road back from the temple, and I felt them in a way I never had before. Not as cinema but as truth, as an  understanding of what it means to be consumed by the search for a home. What it means to wait. What it does to a person. The days empty out.

The nights seem bottomless. Hope itself begins to feel fragile.

Gulzar wrote that song with the genius of someone who understood that the search for a home is never merely about four walls. It is about belonging and dignity, about the self that can fully flourish when it not only has a home  but also respect in this world.

Without it, a person can become, as the film so heartbreakingly suggests, "ek akela is shehar mein" alone in the city.

Utterly, invisibly alone.

I thought of all the people I have encountered, in revenue courts, consumer forums, newspaper reports and the WhatsApp groups of aggrieved housing society members waiting for their homes.

The retired couple who signed redevelopment papers and continue to wait.The young professional whose rent consumes everything while possession dates keep receding into the future. The family of four living in two rooms, watching their children grow while the dream of a larger space remains perpetually out of reach.

Of families torn apart over ancestral land, who have forgotten what they were fighting for beneath all the bitterness. Of siblings who have not spoken in years because of property they may never inhabit happily, even if they win.

And I thought of all those including myself who stood before the deity with a brick, a stone, a handful of earth or simply their own empty hands and asked the universe: "Please let our dreams come true."

As a society, we owe our citizens transparent systems, accountable institutions, ethical business practices and accessible mechanisms for justice. The dream of home ownership should never become an endurance test.

So, my prayer at Kallahalli was not only for my own home, but for everyone standing at the threshold of this dream.

For every home-buyer betrayed by broken promises.

For every family fractured by a land dispute.

For every young person searching for an aashiyana in the night or the dawn.

For every elderly couple waiting for redevelopment to be completed.

May siblings choose reconciliation over litigation.

May builders honour their commitments.

May every unfinished structure transform into a lived-in home filled with laughter.

And may no one remain "ek akela is shehar mein", lonely amidst the crowds, searching endlessly for shelter and belonging. 

May all our aashiyanas become a reality.

Mine, and yours....

R.Vimala, IAS Retd.,

Social Change Catalyst, 

Founder , AnirvedShakti Foundation & 

PhD Scholar at IIT Bombay 

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