Home

She knew it was there. She knew instinctively that if she reached for it, she would be able to touch it and see it. She didn’t know what it looked like or felt like, had ever known it, but she knew it would be there. Waiting. Waiting to welcome her and wrap itself around her like a warm blanket. Like the lover you never really left but were just temporarily parted from.

Before she could stop herself, she thought back to their last time together.

“What is home to you?”, she had asked him, idly tapping her fingers on the sofa.

“I’m not sure”, he replied, “Somewhere I can curl up with a book, some music and a coffee, I guess? Oh, and a warm muffin with chocolate melting in the centre.”

“What is with you and food?” She had laughed softly. It was a light moment, not quite happy but not quite sad. Just two minds at peace with the world. Outside, dusk was quietly wafting in, the air was still, almost warm and moist, as if sighing gently.

I could think of this as home, she whispered, almost to herself.

She didn’t look at him. If she had, she would have seen his expression change, twist into such a sharp expression of longing, it would have been hard to see. It passed almost as quickly as it came, and his features relaxed into a passive expression, eyes almost closed.

“Mmmm…what was that? “

“Nothing”, she said quickly.

“Mmmm…ok…. “ he said, as he turned the page of his book over, and continued reading.

And the moment passed, as if it had never been. Why she should she think of it now, a thousand miles and a million years away, she could not imagine. Was it the sight of the chocolate muffin in the window of the deli she had crossed on her way to work this morning? Or the air when she awoke this morning, which had been still, warm and somewhat moist, like that ordinary day many years ago.

Or was it the question that was never far from her mind these days.

What is home ? What brings the sense of home to you ? Is it the smell of the cold morning air you remember from an impromptu picnic in the neighbourhood park with your father? Or the incredibly soft feel of your two year old son’s hair against your cheek from oh so many years ago when times were simpler and happiness was cosy snuggle with the kids on a Sunday morning? The morning cup of tea in glorious solitude by the window while you carried on a conversation with the sparrow outside ? Or was it in holding hands with the love of your life while tears rolled down your cheek as you watched a sad movie and rain went pitter patter outside the window.

All of these ? Her heart whispered. After all, you always used to say that home is where the heart is. It is not a street or a house, a city or even a continent. It is whatever hole you crawl into while you lick your wounds in private and where you go to to grieve or face the inevitable loss or failure that must come along every now and then.

Or maybe that is all wrong. Maybe it is a place after all, perhaps from your childhood. Maybe it is the shaded lane you grew up on, in the yellow walled house with the riot of boganvillias growing on the terrace and the wrought iron gate, the memory of which still has the power to make your heart clench. Maybe it is the memory of the Luchi and Alu Dam and Begun Bhaja all mixed up with the chants of the 108 names of Krishna that your mom used to read every year at Janmashtami. Maybe it is the afternoons spent at that one friend’s house when no one else was home, speaking of heartbreaks and first loves.

Or it is where you made your home later. The house you earned together with your partner and shared with your loved ones. The feel of walking out onto familiar streets, sharing laughter and tea with friends who had become family, nodding to the same people you meet on the stairs and outside your gate and at the neighbourhood grocery. And knowing you could count on them whenever you needed them. Or is it the new home she was now making in a new land, inch by painstaking inch, filling it with love and longing and daring to hope that it would start to reflect the love back someday soon. Really soon.

Is it none of these ? Is at all of these ? And the fine thread that runs through all of these – that perhaps home is just a feeling. A feeling of loving and being loved and cherished. The sibling who drives you crazy, borrows all your clothes, including the sweater you wanted to wear that day, but worries about you and always, always has your back. Or it is that one friend that very one who really really gets you, who knows exactly what makes you laugh and what makes you cry, who knows what you want and much more importantly, knows exactly what you need.

Or perhaps the feeling of home is the very same feeling that calls your name and nudges you out into the unknown, the same feeling that thrills you as you walk into the unfamiliar and the strange and the new. The same feeling that urges you onto the next adventure, the next mountain, knowing that you will always carry a piece of home with you, as a sound, a smell, a thought or a half memory. Just enough of home inside you so that you can travel far and wide but you are never lost.

Surely that was what made her think of that afternoon with him today. That feeling of his house being her home. What would have happened, she wondered, if she had looked at him ? Would she have stayed? And let his warmth and love wrap itself around her and keep her safe and content.

Not for long. The wind knew her name after all, and would have called her soon, and she would have moved on to the next dream, the next stop on her journey. But she would have carried a bit of that afternoon, with the warm slightly moist air in her heart, the hint of a chocolate filled muffin, just as we all carry our real home with us whoever we go. Home is, after all, where the heart is.