At 7, home meant the cozy, warm house where mother in her pink cotton saree would be preparing potato fritters while father, in his white kurta pyjama would be busy calculating the monthly expenses. While brother played with his 'hot wheels' in the living room, I would be watching the newly hatched baby sparrows on the electrical box at the verandah with dreamy eyes, fantasizing about a new home.
At 19, home was the shared hostel room where I would be lying inside a blanket, embraced by white noise created by the rain, reading the mushiest romantic novel of the time and fantasizing about a new home.
At 29, home was a cozy apartment, with a partner. A warm abode where school friends and family came over to play poker, and remember old days over a drink and a warm meal. Home was a space which was carefully created with a lot of love knitted into every corner. But this time, I did not fantasize about a new home.
At 37, when I handed the reins to the divine while I rested to heal; it took me to a new home, yet again. Home was stillness, but this time it was within me. Can I say I am finally home? Not yet. I wish for all of the above in this new abode. When I say all, it means the warm, fuzzy shared love, dreams and companionship, along with the stillness within.
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