God’s Own Country… Different Housing Rules

God’s Own Country… Different Housing Rules

Mrs Philomena Varghese of Kottayam was very proud of three things.
Her house.
Her garden.
And the fact that people noticed both.

The house had sixteen rooms, each with a purpose – even if some of those purposes remained undiscovered. Italian tiles gleamed like Sunday-morning shoes. The garden was trimmed so neatly that even butterflies hesitated to land without prior approval. Visitors were taken on slow, guided tours, complete with helpful explanations of costs, brands, and imported items.

Mrs Philomena believed, quite firmly, that a well-lived life should leave visible evidence.

Her gardener, Mathai, disagreed—quietly.

Mathai hummed old church hymns while watering plants, spoke to rose bushes as if they were distant cousins, and paused his work whenever a koel sang nearby. He lived in a small tiled house with uneven walls and a front yard that grew whatever it felt like growing. From his modest salary, he found ways to help neighbours, to donate quietly, and to smile as if life had been unexpectedly generous.

“If happiness were a qualification,” someone once said, “the poorest often seem overqualified.”

Mrs Philomena found Mathai puzzling.
People with too much contentment and too little ambition always made her uncomfortable.

Then, one afternoon, while supervising a repainting and correcting the angle of a bougainvillaea, she met with an accident. Mrs Philomena passed away.

Not long after, she arrived in heaven.

Her arrival surprised her.

There was no long queue. No St. Peter with a whistle. No thunderous announcements. Just a calm reception desk, soft light, and a neatly dressed officer who looked suspiciously like a retired government clerk who had merely changed departments.

“Welcome, Mrs Philomena,” he said kindly. “Your house is ready.”

She adjusted her saree, straightened her posture, and followed him confidently. After all, she had spent a lifetime preparing for better addresses.

They stopped.

In front of her stood a small house.
Very small.

One bedroom. One narrow verandah. A roof that looked as though it had survived several monsoons and had stopped complaining about it.

She blinked. Slowly.

“I think there is a mistake,” she said politely. “I lived in a big house.”

“Yes, Madam,” the officer replied, checking his file. “I see that very clearly.”

“I had sixteen rooms. Imported fittings. A garden people took photographs of.”

The officer nodded, as one does when facts are true but no longer useful.

Just then, she noticed a beautiful house nearby, bright, airy, with wide windows and a quiet glow. Angels were still adding the finishing touches, measuring, polishing, and humming softly.

Her face lit up.

“Ah! That one looks correct.”

“Oh no, Madam,” said the officer cheerfully. “That house is not yours.”

“Then whose is it?”

“That is meant for Mr Mathew John, Arecanut.”

“Who is that ?”

“Mathai, your gardener. His official name is that. He will come after a while”

She gasped.

“My gardener? But he lived in a tiny house with cracked tiles! Why give him that?”

The officer leaned closer, lowering his voice as if explaining an eternal rule that could not be appealed.

“Madam,” he said gently, “This is God’s own country… Here, the housing rules are different from those in your place.”
“We can build houses here only using the materials people send us during their lifetime.”

“Materials?” she asked.

“Yes. Gratitude. Kindness. Joy. Help given without announcing it. Wonder at small things.”

He paused, then added, almost thoughtfully,
“What you admire daily slowly becomes what you are.”

He checked his clipboard.

“Mathai, No, Mr Mathew John,  sent excellent material. Daily. A steady supply.”

After a brief pause, he added kindly,
“Yours arrived in large quantities too, but unfortunately, most of them were… polished only on the outside.”

Mrs. Philomena looked again at the small house meant for her. It was clean, neat, and perfectly serviceable, though clearly built with limited supplies.

She remembered, too late, an old truth she had once heard and quickly forgotten: a life measured only by what it owns often comes up short where it matters most.

For the first time in her life, she realised she had built very well…

…just not where it mattered.