India, April 6 -- They say everything happens for a reason. At times, life feels like a patchwork quilt-its pieces stitched together in odd patterns, threads loose in places. From above, perhaps, God sees the whole design. Years ago, while still working, I bought a small two-bedroom flat in the hills. There was no profound reason behind it; I simply could not afford a home in Chandigarh and wanted a space of my own. That little flat seemed a compromise, not destiny. Yet, I held a quiet hope that it might one day become a retreat-a corner to write, rest, and meet my dear friend, Khushwant Singh. I furnished it with care. Each object carried a story: A lamp from a trip abroad, a rug from a roadside stall, a vase I bargained for with a smile and a handful of coins. On a shoestring budget, I gathered things that reflected meaning rather than money. Every year I returned, not to live but to tend: replacing moisture absorbers to keep the damp away, checking the rooms, and airing the curtains. The flat was mine, but it was not yet home. Retirement arrived with a swirl of obligations. Far from being idle, I found myself busier than ever. Yet, something in me kept searching for a place of stillness, for a rhythm slower than the city's, for peace. When I returned to the flat last year, something shifted. Perhaps it was age, perhaps grace, or the mysterious timing of God's design. Sitting on the little porch, I watched monkeys leap from branch to branch while the rain stitched silver threads across the green slopes. For the first time, I was not simply visiting. I felt rooted. A strange peace descended, unbidden yet undeniable. The restless searching that had marked so much of my life quieted. It was as though the patchwork quilt of choices-buying the flat, tending it year after year-had suddenly revealed its pattern. What once felt like chance now felt like providence. I realised that this flat, humble and unassuming, was not a consolation prize. It was a gift where my spirit could finally rest. God had guided me here, though I did not know it at the time. On that porch, as the hills breathed in the mist, gratitude welled up in me. Gratitude for the flat that had waited patiently; for the trinkets that now felt like companions; and for the years of "maintenance" that had, unknowingly, kept this sanctuary alive. Most of all, gratitude to God-for the invisible hand that had stitched these pieces together, for the wisdom of patterns I could not yet see. I thought of how often in life we resist the imperfect, the second best, the affordable, reaching for an elusive ideal. And yet, what we call compromise may be the very ground on which peace finds us. I had set out to buy a house. In the end, I found a home....