home – Page 2 – My Spirals

Lost and found.

Lost and found.

I hope you like this! Enjoy.

Before I tell you a story,
I have a dictionary
that I’d like you to read.
I call it – My Spirals.

Home (noun)
pronounced /’memories/
– a constant blur of memories, and random pauses.
Nomad (noun)
pronounced /’lost/
– People who travel too much
– or stay too little
Travel (verb)
pronounced /’found/
– Taking someone away from one home
– and towards another.

I love to travel.
When I was fourteen,
I spent a weekend living alone
on top of a mountain.
I remember how often
I’d yell ‘hey’
and the mountains would echo back a story.
I don’t stay too long
with places or people,
with stories or poems,
with the light or the dark,
I travel too much
from love to nostalgia,
from photographs to flashbacks,
from home to home,
So, if I am pronouncing this right,
I’m lost and found.

Previous posts:
Instagram: @myspirals

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Everyone has a story.

Everyone has a story.

Omar lived in a neighborhood that a normal person would easily label as weird. Everyone who lived in this area collected things that didn’t make any sense. His neighbor Sufi only collected red chocolate wrappers and her husband loved framing individual piano keys. Continue reading Everyone has a story.

A letter for home.

Delhi is a city in India, and so yes, this letter is to a city. I hope you like this!

To Delhi,

Whenever somebody asks me about the best relationship I have been in or the place I refer to as home or just the city I get nostalgic for, I take your name. I often ask myself this: were you The One?

I was twelve when I shifted to India from Dubai. Now anyone who has seen you knows you are not the love-at-first-sight kind. It takes time and maybe even ages to fall in love with you. A month before I shifted, I came to you with my father to find an apartment, a school and maybe a reason to not leave Dubai. You gave us five. Overwhelming traffic, impolite people and horns so loud that I didn’t feel like listening to music for two days. But it is said that when you love someone, one reason to stay is enough. You gave us a beautiful society to stay in.

Just like any other heartbroken dude you might have come across, I lamented for Dubai for weeks. I spoke non-stop about the best things about the place I used to live in as a child. You would have grinned so hard if you possibly could. I remember very vividly that our affair started on my first day in an Indian school. Three girls walked up to me, shared my chips, and spoke to me for hours. I fell in love with you because of them.

Ever since that first day, you introduced me to pretty women and novels and parties. But here are the two things you gave me that I will forever be grateful for: my first heartbreak and poetry. I met the girl that would later promise me homemade cookies and personal stories and completely leave me in awe of her. I wrote poems with grammatical mistakes but a lot of love and short stories with tons of feelings just for this girl and that made me happy. She was way out of my league but exactly everything I would want. You have me things that made me ‘me’. How could I not call you home?

Delhi, I know I broke up with you abruptly and I miss you too, but I guess we weren’t meant to be. You’re still my home, though.

Write back to me someday?

Yours,
A homesick me.

Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post: Two best friends and a strange story.
Related post: To all the #METOOs

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A nomad’s home.

A nomad’s home.

For the last seventeen years, my father has had a nomad heart with a paternal intention. In human terms, it means he loves changing cities but the new homes that he finds for me have only one common criterion: growth. From Delhi to Chennai to Dubai to Delhi again, I have seen more shades of cities than emotions.

Migration usually is made of a lot of nostalgia and little to no belief in a better future. When I shifted back to India, I was a twelve-year-old who had just left his home to live in a house. It was still comparatively easier because it took me a day and some food to make new friends.

The best thing about Delhi was that I had best friends for the very first time. That is when I read my first proper novel too because the book ‘Goosebumps’ doesn’t count. I had a crush and my heart broken for the very first time too, and I strongly recommend it to everybody. Don’t hate me for it.

More importantly, I fell in love. I fell in love with a girl, the city and everything in between. When I was ten, home was a four-walled apartment. Two years later, it was a city I had just migrated from. That is what being a nomad means. A nomad’s home is an anxious writer who edits his story even after the twentieth draft. When I fell in love, my home became two arms and a steady (and sometimes fast and loud) heartbeat.

Three years into memories of Delhi, my parents decided to shift again. Surprise? Not at all. I never made any friends again and I spent the next two years being nostalgic and the saddest kid you would ever see. But as I caught up to speed to a new city and entered seventeen, something inside me clicked and I realized I can’t do this anymore. I cannot try to make a home every time I shift and then brood over it for some time. More importantly, I cannot stay in the same place.

I became what my dad was. My home is now blurry memories, nostalgia and a thirst to find new places to live. I became a nomad.

Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post: A tale of the five senses – 2
Related post: Earth.

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Midnight.

It’s late, and I’m still thinking about you. I am addicted to you.

”I am addicted.
She is my bottle of vodka.
She is my cookie crumbs.
She is the eighth colour of my rainbow.
The colour that’s everywhere,
Except inside the rainbow.
She is my three A.M.
The three A.M. pain I write about,
And the three A.M. calls I don’t make.
She is my happy ever after.
The happy ever after in a fairytale,
In those tales for my three A.M. kid,
In those stories for my four A.M. demons,
In those lullabies for my five A.M. drowsy eyes.
She is my sushi.
She is my ‘one eyelash – one wish’.
She is my 11:11 ‘Wish, please come true’.
She is my cigarette.
Here’s the fucking problem.
I’m addicted.
And she’s my nicotine patch.”

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Previous post : Tsunami
Related post : How often do you think about me?