Home
is where this heart is — A poetic prose
Home is where this heart is.
A little too far, over eight thousand miles away and several thousand days behind.
Home is where my heart rests contently.
As whole but in little chunks, among the circadian affairs, in unassuming memories.
Home is on the terrace of my childhood house.
In the tumble of my little legs when I raced against the monsoon winds to save Amma’s saree on the clothesline. Or in the way the flat of my feet rested on its thirsty mosaic floors as they soaked up the rain and in my joy.
Home is in the bike rides with Appa along the streets of a small Indian town. In the baby seat on the front and in the breeze on my face while I saw the world through his eyes.
Home is in my grandma’s backyard. Safely tucked away from the swelter of the summer heat under a Mango tree that rustled its abundance and tempted us with its kingly fruits. It’s in the stories she told and in the monochrome movies my grandpa shared. It’s in the endless supply of biscuits they gifted me at the end of every summer when the vacation days ended too soon.
Home is hidden inside the rusted trunk boxes, among the worn Lego sets and between the pages of my old books. It is in how they taught me about the nearest stars and built me a road to the farthest dreams.
Home was in the goodbyes I had to say when I left it all, one by one, and in every tearful embrace at the train platforms and the airport doors.
Home is where my heart is.
Over eight thousand miles away and several thousand days in the past.
But little pieces of which live on in me. In these words, in my love for rain, in my friendships, and how I have learnt to wear my saree and all this love.
© Madhuvandhi Ravi 2023
After years of learning to navigate adulthood while living away from my family, I have realized that one thing I constantly yearn for is to be home. This yearning might never go away, but it is becoming a part of my story.
I would love to know if this rekindled any fond memories of your childhood. Happy reading!
