Home.

Home. No other word feels so heavy in your mouth or in the part of your throat that lumps. For most people, home is a physical building, a city or even a country. These people are familiar with their home; they could find their way blind-folded. There is a sense of belonging and the knowledge of the right fit — like the click of a pen cover locked in. You know its just right.

Then there’s another form of home — a mental space, a recalling, a safe-place, a yearning. People like me identify with this form of home. I’m a banjara, a modern one I guess. In my almost 23 years, I have spent 10 years away from ‘home’, per se where the family is and where I was born. Boarding school was like the guy you first hate, because he makes you step outside your comfort zone, he pushes your boundaries. You know he’s probably right for you, but you’re too set in your ways, or you’re perhaps plain scared of what he might do to your soul. But like this breed of men often does, he grew on me by the day. He engulfed me in a world of possibilities, stripped me of my fears and threw me in a whirlpool of emotions, struggles and challenges — from which I emerged stronger and calmer. My five years at school flew (at least in retrospect) and before I knew it, it became home. It was where I made my best memories and bonds, where I molded my personality, where I was appreciated and loved, where I belonged. Quite naively I thought I’d found home again. But then I graduated and left. One day I visited school, excited to be reunited with my first true love. Instead I saw a stranger I once knew. I saw someone else living in my room, doing my duties; I saw my lover’s new love. And it broke my heart.

Then came Delhi — a city you love and you hate. You know, kyunki ye Delhi hai(,) meri jaan. My affair with Delhi was short-lived, and most of it I spent hungover on school. For I lived in a bubble — the only friends I had were the ones I made in school. Though the city itself did not ignite in me enduring love, it brought me to someone who did. You know the story — epic love, violins in the background until the inevitable heartbreak. And as all epic loves do, this one changed me. Once again. I’m still figuring out if it was for the better or for the worse. But the point is I was already spoiled from my time at boarding school; some things just leave such high expectations that you can never go back to anything lesser. So I left Delhi — for somewhere I could grow.

And now here I am, Ann Arbor — a different country, a different culture. Once again I entered this life hungover on Delhi (the epic love and the bubble). Once again, I struggled to make space for this city in my heart. And once again, I naively thought nothing would change back home. You know when you try to juggle two affairs, sooner or later it blows up in your face? Something like that happened. My bubble burst — they were still doing all the things they did when I was there, but now I was missing. I left behind some of my bestest friends, and in time they left me. Though I still count as a good friend, I’m now a visitor, not a member. While I was struggling to adjust in this new world, I was also struggling to accept that now they’ll all continue growing closer, making memories — that they’ll move on. They city was frozen in time in my memory; a distant memory of exploring its beautiful and its ugly, with the one I loved. I go to Delhi every few months and do the things I did when I belonged. Except now, I don’t. it’s the same faces and the same places, but it’s not. The city is the friend you made through an ex-lover; neither of you able to handle the awkwardness now that he’s gone.

I’ve been here four years and now Ann Arbor is home. The streets, the weather, the smells, the people — they’re all mine and I am theirs. But soon I will break its heart and start a new affair. In my head I know now that my heraith is little for the physical space, more for the people in that space. But in my heart, I fall in love each time. Hopefully this time I’ll move on. Hopefully this time I’ll know how to say goodbye. Hopefully next time, I’ll define home without a heavy heart.