At home, in more ways than one

I needed to come home. It had been nine months since I started my life as a full-time journalist and needed to be away from all the hassle, even if it was for a week. So there I was, with my bags packed, ticket in hand and brimming with excitement. Home was just a 3-hour flight away, yet the journey was seemingly a light year for me.

I guess I needed to go home as much as I needed to write again. At the constant pecking of Astha, I finally took my pen and a notebook, and thought what the hell was I doing. Where was my laptop? I switched it on, logged into my long abandoned blog, and furiously attacked the keyboard, outpouring whatever random God-almighty things I could think of. Then I wiped it out. Control + A, delete. All gone. 554 words, three hours of relentless outpouring, wiped out in a millisecond. The computer was patient enough to ask me if I was sure, though. I did not oblige.

This was not going to be a monologue where I rejoiced breaking my self-assigned exile. There would be no one to read it anyway. Not that I thought anyone should. I was writing for myself, and why should I let other people reading my blog affect me. I started again, being honest this time. Although it did not make for good writing, I was happy with my child-like immaturity in my words. I am a kid at heart. My writing should not be anything more or less. It should be me. It needed to feel at home.

I live in Bengaluru and so far the city has been absolutely great to me. I have found myself a decent home in Koramangala, neatly tucked away between a park and lots of cafes. On most days, I just come back home and long for a good sleep. It is the weekends that I love – spending time with Astha, aimlessly roaming the streets in the neighborhood and occasionally stumbling across a book store or cafe. There are weekends the friends and I get together, have a house party or go out too. Of course, you can throw in that unique Saturday where the couch is your destination and a book your favorite companion.

Things were different back here in Assam, more like being synonymous to constant. Here everything and everyone has stayed the same, and continue to do until some unusual thing decided to alter regular proceedings. Newton’s theoretical third law occupied a very practical, uncanny resemblance here. It was as if, the entire area was one giant laboratory, in an unending display of being stuck in doldrums. People still opened their shops at five in the morning and greeted every passers-by that walked past, busy deciding what they want from the market. Elders still complained about the rising heat and still haggled with the vegetable vendors for increasing prices. Shops shut in the afternoons as sellers quickly stole a siesta.

I admit getting bored with it all eventually, and I partly blame my urban, tech-aided lifestyle for it. I watched the sun set after a long time yesterday. I watered the little garden behind our house too. As the drops of water, pit-patted on the ground, funneling through the leaves, I was overcome with a sense of peace. It was such a simple thing, yet I received the greatest amount of joy out of it. Cooking with my mother, throwing the ball for my dog to chase and reading Harry Potter novels over and over again.

A week from today, I will be heading back to work. I will be home again, another home. My daily chores will occupy me once more. I will be back at work. The world will still keep spinning, the sun will set and rise and set again. I want to enjoy these seven days of solitude, of seclusion from the world, before the wave of responsibilities tries to pin me down, while I wrestle back up to my surf board. Let me breath again, before the saline water engulfs my lungs.

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