For as long as I remember Home for me was where I would wake up to my Dad’s monotonous voce droning out my dreams, where my mother’s filter coffee spread its tantalizing addictive scent into all around and where I would scramble and fight with my brothers and where my father and I would literally leap to the door at the sight of the paper. I still have a feeling that he stood for a minute longer each day to see who won, or deliberately aim the paper in differeant directions. It was where I came home to my mother’s dinner, to my Father’s scrabble and news nights every night. That was where my heart is. After what seemed like a lifetime I moved to a place which was now referred to as my home and I moved further where I was expected to make my home. The funny thing about heart is it dosen’t follow directions, it comes with its own set of directions, which often means it wanders around when I try to settle and make itself comfortable in people’s mind and houses when I don’t want to. Just beacuse I was instructed to make my home and refer to people as my parents didn’t mean that I wanted to do it or I was prepared. There was however a comfort level I got into with increasing familiarity. It didn’t happen in sequential manner, it happened. I have made my home now, far far away from the little place I had called home, and a distant cry from the big world contained in a tiny room which seemed to exapnd with friends and the walls that held my secrets tight. The wind is different. It seemed to carry the conversations I had and was a part of my bandwagon of mates. Over here it just seemes to be suspended in midair. I am not sure if it listens to the woe betide me stories or laughs at my rib cracking thoughts I speak aloud. The moon seems a little different too. But amidst al these I have slowly learnt to call this place which I scrub and scrouge, where I trip over the stairs, where I play Uno with my equal (Not better, equal) half and where the smell of the weak brew I pour down my throat tries its best to waft gracefully. I feel a twinge when I leave the place to fly home. I feel homesick before I leave and glad when I am back. Does it mean I like the place where my heart was a little less. Is the place where your heart used to thrive for 20 odd years your true home or the place where your heart learnt to adapt? Is it even possible to live in two worlds and call them each your home? My home is with my mother with whom I learnt to love, cook and paint. It is with my father who made the rest of my life. It is alos with my love who I gave my heart to and willingly followed him to the end of the earth to make my home where he went. My home is with these people and my heart learns to love them all in its own different way
July 30, 2006
The Heart needs a Home..