A son's home is Free Airbnb!

A son’s home. Sounds warm. Sounds welcoming. Mine is a budget lodge.

My parents don’t come to see me. Not their grandson. Not without bribes. Toys, sweets... Not even scraps for their daughter-in-law. She's invisible furniture. But their neighbour’s sister’s family doctor’s son’s wife's best friend's cousin brother's uncle's daughter delivered a baby in Pune... so suddenly our address becomes a prime location. Their car rolls straight into my parking spot. It sleeps better than my family does. Months pass. I park my bike like a thief in the common parking while their metal ego sleeps peacefully under my roof.  

Then one day, they suddenly disappear. No bonding with us. Not even pretending. They go on a tour to meet relatives who never bothered to ask if we were alive. We are just the storage room between their social visits. Free security. Free electricity. 

A free Airbnb with emotional taxes.

Sometimes they pay rent in milk and curds. Grocery bags dumped like charity on flood victims. They announce to the world, "Look how generous we are. Look how we feed the lodge owners. Clap everybody."

And during every damn visit they clean out their fucking refrigerator back home like they are evacuating a war zone. Half-dead vegetables, the whole goddamn flower market, half of DMart spices section, everything lands in my fridge without warning, without mercy. They dump it inside like we live in some abandoned rainforest where food is extinct and civilization forgot our address. My refrigerator gasps for air buried under their leftovers while I stand there wondering if I own a home or run a cold storage unit for family immigrants.

But the real circus begins when they stay.

The routine we built for years with bleeding hands gets destroyed within hours of their arrival. Years of effort erased by their fucking chaos. My son struggles to sleep early. Nights are fragile glass. One loud phone call, one door slam and everything shatters.

Parents armed with smartphones and unlimited Wi-Fi turn every room into a public cinema hall. News anchors screaming. Reels looping like torture devices. Full volume, no matter who is sleeping, who is working, who is slowly losing their sanity. Headphones exist. Basic decency exists. But why bother? In this lodge, silence is illegal and boundaries are imaginary. Sleep is a luxury reserved for people whose parents understand the meaning of "enough."  

My mother pops sleeping pills like roasted peanuts. Ultracet for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Her nerves have resigned from duty long ago. Even the strongest tablets have given up on her. Advice bounces off her skull like rubber bullets. I once joked, "Amma, mix your Ultracets with tadka and make chivda. At least it will taste better." She stared at me like a government statue. Dead eyes. No reaction.

My father cannot sit in one place for five minutes. Human earthquake. We never ask them to change their habits. Never. But there is one ancient saying which apparently died before reaching their ears. While in Rome, be a Roman. While in my house, follow my rules. Simple. Logical. Funny joke, right?

Because they arrive with their own constitution. Their own emergency laws. Every corner of my house becomes their kingdom. They know my weak spots. Every insecurity. Every wound they helped create. They poke and poke without anaesthesia like bored surgeons. Waiting for me to explode. They want the scene. They want the shouting. They want the moment where I lose my shit, so they can wear the victim crown and parade around with holy music playing in the background. Poor parents abused by an ungrateful son. Oscar performance ready. 

They think I am still the little boy who waited for them at the school gates that stayed empty. The child who scanned every crowd, hoping to see familiar faces that never came. Birthdays without them. Functions without them. Milestones swallowed alone while pretending it didn’t hurt. They think that boy still lives here.

He died a long time ago. In their absence.
Yes absence. Heavy word. Bitter word. The only honest word left between us.

I do not question them anymore. They have rehearsed answers. Standard lines stored in their brain cells like auto replies. Emotional templates. Defensive speeches polished for decades.

We used to miss them. Real pain. Real longing. We wanted them here once. We wanted to be a family so badly it hurt to breathe.

Now the doorbell rings and my chest fills with dread instead of love.

Welcome to the Free Airbnb. Please remove your shoes, your empathy, your fake blessings at the door. Because your visit always leaves behind more cracks in this house.