Home

Home is the sight of the familiar, the known, the practised.
Home is the comfort of being in one’s city, traversing through routes so oft-travelled that conscious thought is unnecessary, shopping at stores where the eyes of vendors widen slightly in recognition on seeing you, reading one’s mother-tongue on every passing billboard and poster.
Home is the hostel where one’s sister lives, the college in which she studies – because they remind you of her.
Home is the apartment with no gardens and new, uncomfortable furniture that holds all your expectations of happiness – because it houses your parents, even if it’s located an ocean’s length away.
Home is the wisp of a song, the whiff of a scent, known in happier days.
Home is the clean, empty house waiting for a tenant, even if it taunts one with its echoing loneliness – because it contains too many memories of daily life lived, to be otherwise.
Home is the sight of a friend, the sudden help of a loved one whom one had thought lost forever, when most in need.
Home is the knowledge of self, and the self-esteem and self-knowledge that is a prerequisite for a happy and trustful nature to survive everywhere, and anywhere.

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