Home

I remember what home felt like,
When I was seven years old.
Home was the aroma of varan-bhaat
Wafting through the entire house,
Accompanied by the harsh whistling
Of the cooker which was older than me.
Home was adjusting the antennae on the radio in the best position possible,
And listening to the old classics.

I remember what home felt like,
When I was sixteen years old.
Home was a cage that bound me to itself
With shackles of emotions, fear and dependence
Never letting me just be me,
Always trying to suffocate me.
Home was a restriction that was put on me,
A restriction I had to break free of,
To know what it feels like to be me.

I remember what home felt like
When I was twenty four.
Home was what welcomed me,
With open arms after a tiring day at work,
And asked me how my day was,
Just to listen to me rant about it.
Home was what you and I,
Had strived to build together,
Despite all odds.

I remember what home felt like
When I was thirty two.
Home was the empty space
Between the walls filled with photos,
Just to hide the cracks,
That has started appearing.
Home was just a house,
Whose homeliness was lost
Somewhere along the way.

I know what home feels like
When I am forty years old.
Home is this abstract concept,
Romanticized beyond all limits,
Which can be built where ever you want,
And can be destroyed when ever you want.
Home is this gentle tug in your heart,
Which makes you miss and feel homesick,
For a place you don’t know where to find.

Now, whenever I feel homesick,
I just come to the house.
I draw the curtains over the window,
Gently put the cooker on the stove
And wipe the dust of the the radio,
Hoping that it will play just one more time.
I sit on the armchair and think about us,
And suddenly, the house starts to feel
Just like home.