Finding A Home Within

A Journey Through Impermanence

Photo by Lotus Design N Print on Unsplash

Almost 20 years ago, I wrote these words:

I am sitting on the edge of the window out of my parents’ room. Half in, half out. Half in the sun, half in the shade. There’s a cool breeze. I can see the rooftops of all my neighbours’ houses, hear the birds and the insects. Pencil and a notepad in hand. No hurry to write down anything. Just random thoughts. My hair is clipped in a ponytail loose enough for the breeze to rustle through.

After almost six years, I am back at my parents’ place. It’s a weird feeling. It’s like everything is there and I don’t want to touch it or mess with it in any way. I have my own room, but I haven’t decorated it yet. I’ve been here 20 days. I never take this long to set up my room. Don’t know why I am not doing it now.

It’s a beautiful day out. Clear sky after two and a half days of incessant rains. I can hear my mom frying something in the kitchen. She just got done making gulab jamuns. I wonder what she is making now. Let me go check. Am back. Made one dish. Half actually. Seems to be a day of halves.

I wrote this while perched between worlds, a year after moving from New York City to Tokyo. As a diplomatic child, my life has been a constellation of cities — Delhi, Islamabad, Qatar, Tokyo, and briefly, Ho Chi Minh City. Home…