Home.

This post is completely about me.

“Souls tend to go back to what feels like home.” – N.R. Hart

Home is the nicest word there is, insisted Laura Wilder.

Home isn’t always four painted walls and a cozy bed. And it isn’t always two warm arms and a beating heart. It can be anything.

I’ve been shifting from city to city all my life. Sometimes, even countries. And so I’ve made a home that has walls made with memories and painted with a tint of nostalgia. Michelle K said ‘Nostalgia is a dirty liar that insists things were better than they seemed’. I don’t mind lies anymore.  Here is a small and brief glimpse into my home.

  1. My family and I were walking back to my apartment, giggling and talking about songs as we licked on our ice-creams. The walk from Baskin Robbins wasn’t a long one. So, back in 2010-11, 10 year old me did not care about anything except the ice-cream that kept melting and dripping from the sides of my cone. As my parents walked behind me, and we were less than twenty steps from our building, I decided to try and stop the dripping by licking the cream. As I did, the scoop came right off the cone and fell down. I was left with an empty cone and a family that just could not stop laughing.
  2. Two years and a different country later, the first day of school in India really terrified me. Of course I had been here before, when I was in first grade, but a lot changes in six years. I took the bus to school, anticipating what the day could possibly be like, all the way to the school. I met my class teacher and she took me to my classroom where thirty students literally shout my name out when I entered. I remember the big smile on my face as I sat down next to someone. The same day, a few hours later, when almost everyone had left, I took out my lunch. A yellow lays. As soon as I opened it, a few students come and share it with me. I found one of my best friends that day.
  3. By the time I finished my first terms in grade eighth, me and my best friend had started having sleepovers every night. We basically lived at each others places. Surprising our mothers daily (Although, they weren’t), playing every possible sport, and doing any thing that could push us over the edge and into the category of clinically crazy.
  4. 2008 – we shifted. 2012 – we shifted. 2015 – we shifted. Aren’t these memories too?

Home for me was four colorful people and a lazy (also, crazy) day out. Home for me was a bunch of warm giggles and a throbbing rush of blood to our cheeks. Home for me was a constant blur of memories, and random pauses. I miss every place I have been to. Although I miss the last one the most.

Now I know all of this might mean nothing to you. But it does to me, and as I promised, I’d like you to know me for the person I am along with the words I write. This is part of the infinity I am. Find your home. Build the next curve of your infinity. And when you are done, don’t stop. We are the infinite spiral of space, with no end at all.

“If we were meant to stay in one place, we’d have roots instead of feet.” – Rachel Wolchin

Bless this home ∞
Adieu.


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Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞

How often do you think about me?

How often do you think about me?

When someone touches your hair,
Laughs at your jokes,
Hurts you,
Or just watches you giggle endlessly,
Do you wish that it was me?
When someone pushes you away
To pull you closer,
Looks in your eyes
And smiles with curled lips
And crinkled eyes,
Do you wish that it was me?

When someone gives you roses,
Chocolates,
Or adventure and Love,
When someone wraps his arm
around your shoulders,
Do you wish it was my heartbeat,
My arms and my warm grip,
Do you wish that it was me?

When someone holds your hands,
Rubs your palms,
Kisses the back of your hand,
Holds it forever,
Do you wish it was the folds of my fingers,
And hope in my eyes?
Do you wish it was me?

Do you think about me as often
As blades think of cutting,
And the band-aid of healing?

Do you think about me as often
As the sun of burning,
And the water of drowning?

Do you think about me as often
As the clock of ticking away,
And the days of making us wait?

Do you think about me as often
As I think of you,
Or not at all? – Utsav Raj


Previous post : To my favorite author.
Related post : Grey.

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞