Home, wanted

It was food that touched my tongue and my eyes that responded. 

Daal Baati Choorma for dinner in the mess. As close to home as I could get.

It is amazing how the tiniest thing can inspire the strongest of the emotions; how it can unlock a surge of memories, tastes, smells and touches. And how disconnected and accidental tastes, smell and touches transport you into visions that transcend the boundaries of physical distance. It's funny how superficial physical proximity is that way, and yet it is so essential, so capturing.

We spend our entire lives trying to make homes out of places and then out of people; trying to see where we belong - culturally, intellectually, emotionally, habitually, spiritually. More often than not, these 'homes' don't even overlap. We hold the ends all these threads, trying to keep ourselves from coming apart at the seams. 

These threads - lifelines - they have a mind of their own, don't they? They keep us sane, being there so solidly until one day, suddenly, they are gone. And we are left grasping wisps that they leave behind. Some are lucky enough to find some that hold on to that one thing, that one lifeline that lasts them a lifetime - in physicality or in memory. For some, neither is enough. 

We lose our bearings for some time, but then, we keep some, we lose some, we find some. It goes on. We are always moving anyway aren't we? We don't stop. Moments become crystallized in memory, but we don't stop. Even if we tried to, we could not stop because life goes on. It is merely comfortable to think if such and such thing happens, my life will end. It never does. Cruelly, brutally, beautifully, indifferently, it goes on. We are left to play catch up. And if we don't, time takes its toll. 

Home is where the heart lies, they say. For some of us, the heart lies at the one place we call home. But then, as we go places, meet people, we make little homes in them, as they do in us. Conversations, touches, kisses, laughter, gestures or just a look shared for the briefest second - our hearts become home to so many loves, lives and moments. We paint a picture of 'home' in the very same hearts and keep it there while it yearns for the past, present and future. 

We meander our way through life making homes, breaking homes and missing homes. We are all changing a little bit with everyone who we touch who is trying to do the same. We are all connected that way - so superficially, invisibly and yet, so deeply. In the end, aren't we all trying to stand out and still trying to belong?

Because sometimes, I find myself craving for a cushion that makes me forget, even if it is momentary, how much I have grown up.

What it means to be Home

Home is unlocking the doors to dusty, unused spaces, adorned with walls and furniture; but the scrubbing does not feel so bad.

Home is the colors of red, white and grey, the television I seldom watch and two rooms.

Home is sleeping in a bed where the pillow is neither too flat nor too full but just right to cup my head.

Home is feeling of the bed soft enough for me to sink and strong enough to hold me.

Home is the sight of old books, long unread and drawers full of collected, hoarded and colorful treasures.

Home is the windowsill where I can hear music, feel the wind, watch the rain and conjure surreal scenarios in my head.

Home is the fancy, inadequate lighting to complain about, the smell of onion and garlic wafting through open doors and the low hum of a chimney occasionally inhabited by pigeons.

Home is going for evening walks in the perfect weather and lying on the grass, staring at the sky.

Home is flying on my dear Aviator, knowing where to go- that I will not be lost.

Home is when the "Ma calling" or "Home calling" flashes on my phone.

Home is going shopping with Ma that ends up in role reversal.

Home is waking up to the voice that tries relentlessly to correct my sleep cycle in a way only she can.

Home is watching television with my head on her lap and sighing in exasperation at all the melodrama onscreen.

Home is a lazy Sunday with Papa cribbing about no new movies airing on HBO.

Home is saying "Let's go for ice-cream!" and watching the eldest man become a pouting child because he thinks he got lesser ice cream.

Home is playing board games and UNO that are six months overdue, complete with the peeking and exclamations of “That’s cheating!”

Home is learning to talk in basic gaming jargon to bridge some three years short of a decade in between; and the having a heart to heart with all those years intact.

Home is all things familiar, near and yet too far away. Home is that freedom which its confines can bring. Home is a familiar touch, familiar ways, favorite colors and music playing uninhibited with doors wide open. Home is to take off and knowing where to go. Home is not being afraid, not being alone. Home is the warmest comfort there is. Home is tidying up the mess and feeling good about it because it is mine.

Home is the tightness of hugs that grow in between the periods I get them.



Home is where I always want to stay

Please, just for one more day,

And though I have done this many times,

It always hurts to leave it behind.