Dear Home,
What IS home?
Maybe it’s like the first chord striking a chord deep within me, or the reminder of those thought-provoking questions sneaking up during this history class. Picture this: I’m discreetly eyeing Zerone’s contest, diverted from the pages of my history notebook. There’s this array of people, things, and emotions swirling around, making the choice feel like a judgment day, holding Geeta in a personal courtroom.
Home, it seems, is this potent force making me keenly aware of the unease at that very moment. It’s not just the search for four walls; it’s about the weight of choices, the tug of emotions, and the stories on the pages of my life. It was a search for “Home”.
What is home?
With hunger gnawing at my insides, and rushing to the Campus cafe, unaware that the true meaning of home was about to unfold. It wasn’t until that soothing sip of warm tea, that the revelation washed over me. In those precious five minutes, Zerone, the competition, and the relentless pursuit of “home” faded into the background. An overwhelming sense of guilt crept in, questions stirred in my mind, and a pungent confusion settled over me.
What, after all, is the essence of home?
In the waning ten minutes, bags all set and one single question on repeat, the path to Nepal Yatayat was mapped out for the pursuit of home. Yet, in those closing moments, the conversations shifted to light chatter and the shared weariness of assignments. It was a deja vu, a recurring guilt. In that search for what constituted home, reflexively, earphones nestled into my ears. It’s in these moments that the constant rhythm of seeking and discovery, the echo of finding a home, seems to be a beautiful yet continuous journey.
My psyche was raged with myriads’ interpretations of “home” as a mere dwelling, a place of shelter, where life unfolds. Yet, while factual, these definitions felt strangely inadequate for the profound moment at hand. A discerning sense of less arose, only to be swiftly subdued by the allure of Spotify, With One simple click, the mellifluous strains of Kishor Kumar’s “Kora Kagaj” began, and a timeless melody suspended my “ home” search. In this tender cycle, the gentle hums of the beats intertwined with the fading echo of this question, creating a magical interval spanning over 20 minutes.
Amidst the persistent guilt and the relentless drive to conquer this quest, the revolution around the loop of “home” leaves me blissfully unaware of my reached destination. Nate Berkus’s words, “Your home should tell the story of who you are” strike a poignant chord. It prompts a deep introspection into my narrative- the origins, the character, the unfolding plot which triggers the heartfelt question, “How am I the protagonist in this tale” which iterates with the same consistent emotion: What, indeed is home to me?
As the clouds of thoughts continue to swirl, they inevitably return to a time when Hajurama served warm rotis with chutney. Unintended, yet the search for meaning finds a natural pause in that moment. A new narrative unfolds with the very first taste of those rotis.
At that moment, I found myself weaving a new story from her perspective. It’s like a reversed pause, a moment where I ponder: What might be home for her? The answer becomes evident: our full tummies, our smiling faces, our happiness — could it be that we are her smiles? Could it be that we are her home?
In the steady flow of time, definitions of the home were multiplying with every passing second. Yet, within these recent hours, the only response I discovered seemed remarkably elusive — hovering persistently at zero. In a moment of curiosity and a bit of desperation, I turned to Google, typing in the question, “What is home?”
“Home is where your heart is.”
“Home is where love resides and laughter never ends.”
The screen echoed these words, simple yet profound, offering a glimpse of solace and perhaps a hint of the elusive answer I sought. In the reflective gaze of the heart’s mirror, discomfort rippled through every bit of my being, a disquiet that manifested as an unsettled discord in the room’s serenity. Everything seemed to cast an accusatory stare in my direction- the canvases crafted to cradle moments of tranquility amid the chaos of exams; the furniture adorned with delicate sticky notes, and the dreamcatcher gently swaying in rhythm with the billow curtains. Yet the most glaring noise was from the empty suitcases that had witnessed the stirring journey of departure. The nostalgia of home swept over me, an echo of the time when those suitcases were strangers to farewell and my home was those four walls until it transformed into a ride to the valley.
In that tapestry of time the very essence of “home” underwent a profound transformation, evolving from the embrace of fixed walls to the transient sanctuary of rolling bags. Reflecting upon that room in Dhangadhi, perhaps the conventional notions of what we were taught to define home may hold a fragility I hadn’t considered. Now, here I stand, caught in the labyrinth of rediscovery, skiing a new answer of home, starting from ground zero once more.
What was home?
Amidst the torn pages and a cup of caffeine, a silent room found respite, interrupted by a ringing phone and unread notifications. Anxious hands hesitated before one simple “hello”.
The call, it turned out, was from “home.” An hour of gossip and parental tales unfolded, yet the save number perplexed me- was it a societal ritual for that saved name? Seeing clarity, questions multiplied, and prompting inquiries to those atop my chat liars, desperation led to bedtime text scrolls, seeking answers in the refuse of my blanket fort.
In the vast expanse of a 12-hour exploration, little did I anticipate that my elusive answer resided not in exhaustive searches but within the echoes of the heartfelt replies received. The profound inquiry, “What is home to you?” unraveled a revelation of poetic simplicity:
“Home is the moment.”
Suddenly, it struck me — I had been enveloped in my home all along, not confined by brick and mortar but nestled within the contours of cherished moments.
Reflecting on the journey, every pause, every guilt-ridden break from my relentless search, became a cornerstone of my true home. Those fleeting seconds of warmth encapsulated in sips of tea, the melodic strains of Kishor Kumar guiding me like a compass, the intimate gossip that resonated as comforting whispers, and the hisses shared with Hajurama — all these moments were fragments of my home. The suitcases, once witnesses to a departure, stood as sentinels of my transient yet profound homes. Even the last two minutes of fervent scrolling before answers materialized became a sanctuary.
In the essence of this realization, my moments, rich with the echoes of torn pages, the resonance of a ringing phone from “home,” the fragrance from our college canteen, and the contemplation over societal rituals — all these intricacies blended into the tapestry of my home. The relentless pursuit of understanding, be it through philosophical pondering or a simple Google search, unfolded as a unique narrative within the shelter of these moments.
And then, in a crescendo of self-discovery, the proclamation echoed: “I was my home!” In the ceaseless flow of time, amidst the swirling thoughts, and the persistent quest for a definition of home, it became evident that the sanctuary I sought was not external. Instead, it was nestled within the pauses, interruptions, and confusions of my existence. Each fragment of the journey had collectively formed the tapestry of my home. In these moments, I discovered the profound truth that my essence, my very being, was my home all along.
