Tomorrow’s a new day.

This one is for new beginnings.

(You might want to skip this if you don’t want to read about me. Thank you for coming here, though)

Before I tell you all about my journey, you should know that I am not the son of an army officer who has to wear uniforms and smell like good-byes. I am also not the son of a business tycoon who travels often and migrates with a suitcase filled with his family to wherever the market is looking good.

My father is just what he is supposed to be, a father. He does what he thinks will be best for his children. But every now and then, you can also see a small hint of a nomad if you look deep enough into his eyes. That’s how it began, by being a father and a nomad.

I was very young and in Delhi when my father got a wonderful job opportunity in Dubai and he had to leave us behind to go. Even worse, we had to shift to Chennai while he worked hard and became a warrior in the corporate world, fighting for peace and a beautiful house for his family to live in.

As a six-year-old in Chennai, I remember three things. Kinder joy, Jim Jam, and games. Of course, there’s the occasional ‘Remember that’ moment, but that’s usually just nostalgia and my mom talking. Eventually, we moved to Dubai.

I don’t remember much about the experience of my first flight except that I never even realized the plane took off because I was too busy eating. I spent almost five years over there, with Coke bottles, Indian food, and my best friends. But the obvious thing happened when I, personally, least expected it. My parents decided that it was time for the kids to learn what India was all about, and what better place to learn that than Delhi?

Because I was older, I don’t remember things about my time there that I wish I did. But then there is also the curse of being a human, which basically means I remember a few things that I don’t want to hold on to. My first heartbreak, first vodka shot, and my first poem have the same person and place in it. The same girl, and the same city. How can Delhi not be special for introducing me to love and Poetry? I called it home.

Three years into the best years of my life, we had to shift again. It is kind of obvious at this point because my family tends to do everything a bit too much, but this time was different. I knew what home felt like, I knew how a group of friends can be better than four walls and how disco lights can drive the darkness away.

For the first two years in Gujarat, I missed home. I wrote poetry on love and social issues but never on home because it was too damn hard. It got worse when distance took its toll on my friendships and I had fewer people to talk to as time went on. I developed commitment issues, and insecurities of my body and everything around it.

My life became a big coin flip and I had a very short span of time to call heads or tails, to call alive or existing. I don’t know what I chose, honestly.

One day, it all became okay. The nomad gene inside of me kicked in, and I promise you it is the best pain-killer/antibiotic ever. I still have atelophobia, and I still have insecurities but it’s easier to accept that now. I did not make best friends again, but I never stopped making memories.

I made my home but it wasn’t four walls or a group of friends, or two arms and a heartbeat. It was blurry memories, nostalgic smiles, and poetry. It took time but it was worth it. Stay strong.

Have a great year starting from whenever you read this.

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.


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Instagram: @myspirals

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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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