I’ll be walking along a very different road come fall this year, & it has made me think a lot about what my home means to me. Is it a place, a city: the beautiful roads of Connaught Place, & the welcoming waves of Bombay? Or is it a person: arms that feel like soft grass feel like your childhood bed feel like a soft place to land? Or is it a feeling: the silent sigh of resting your bones after a tiring day at life? What is home?
I attended an open-mic event last week, in a tiny room with giggles at one end & enraptured wide eyes at the other. It cradled snapping fingers & coffee & cats & warmth. It was a strange place; fiercely guarding itself against the ravages of time, & the very next second, welcoming it with open arms. I knew nothing, & no one; & yet, I knew nothing, & everyone. It felt like sinking your feet into the ocean after the searing sand. It felt a lot like home.
This week, home has felt a lot like sharing the experience of Avengers: Endgame & Game of Thrones with people across the globe. I don’t know who they are, but we have cried over the conclusions to these beautiful journeys together. Maybe that is what home is- the act of returning after traversing across the skies. Or maybe, home is building tucked-away corners in different cities while hiking across the mountains. Maybe it can be both. Humans are so very fortunate to be intelligent enough to build. We build roads, sky-scraping buildings, machines, ideas, entire cultures & civilisations! Maybe that is what home is all about- the fundamental, human act of creating.
Write to me about what your home looks like, & what makes it absurdly wonderful-painful-alive for you.