I’ve spent all my life
Trying to explain where home is.
It finally dawned upon me
That this is not something
I can point to on a map.
The heady scent of pine and eucalyptus
Piercing the staleness of day
With their fragrance.
The presence of the holy tulasi plant
From which I pluck a leaf
And carefully tuck it behind my messy tresses.
Carefully preserved books,
Yellowing with age,
And a memory trapped in every page.
A prayer altar full of gods,
Each one of them jostling on the shelf
For space and devotion.
The fire from lit camphor
Destroying itself in its quest for truth.
Home is where Amma laughs,
Her tinkling laughter makes you feel
Glad to be alive.
Home is where you can pick
The broken pieces of your weary soul
And begin all over again.