When did you last go home? (part 2)

I am home when you accept me as I am. When my words offer acceptance to you.

I am home, boss, I am home. Look at these amazing curtains behind me, all around me. This cool breeze from the AC, just for me. A couple of cats just outside the window slapping each other irritably. Soon they will lick and make up.

A mango shake sits in a glass next to me. Saida, my sister-in-law brought mangoes for me from Lucknow even though she knew I wouldn’t be home when she visits. Her brother is not even in town.

“Tumhare fridge mein aam rakh diye hain maine…” she said to me on the phone.

On the glass that contains the mango shake are fading markings of Angry Birds – cartoons from the annoying animation film that came out when my daughters were little. They are grown up now. Kanta, who made this mango shake for me, treats this glass as mine.

On my head is a soft lilac headband that my friend Chembu has knitted for me. In front of me is my laptop screen with Zoom windows full of sharp, gentle writers. We are practicing feeling safe.

The room I am in is awash in sunlight filtering in through tall trees outside the windows. We planted most of these trees. One of us always vetoed the other when the topic of trimming trees came up. Afzal has designed so many windows in this house that his friend Jafar had quipped, “Tumhare ghar mein deewar to hai nahi, calendar kahan tangoge?” There aren’t enough walls in this house, where will you hang a calendar?

How has this finally become home for the vagabond who was sharing her essay on feeling homeless just last week?

Part of the answer is that the global lockdown during the Covid pandemic brought me home. This is where I was with my children. This is where our dog and cat were and other cats from the neighbourhood turned up, asking for their share of food. Afzal returned home, here.

The other part of the answer is that roots grow on their own, just as wings sprout on their own when the time is right. When I had to run and fly, I found a way to do it. When I was stranded, my feet and the earth beneath them became familiar with each other. Plucking bhindi and cherry tomatoes for dinner and taking photos of Rahat, our cat, in the spinach patch brought me home.

There is also a pond near my home. When we first moved here, it had clear water. Clouds and blue sky reflected in its surface. Now it is a dirty marshland, but my dogs love it.

I am home, boss, I am home, says Scarlet when she returns panting with speckles of green moss all over her black coat. There is a tap and a hose inside the gate. It’s time for Scarlet’s bath. She loves it. So do we.

Home is where I am allowed to care. To make space for those who ask for my care. Home is where I can allow myself to be tired. To rest. To be sleepless, to laugh too much, to be quiet, to be raucous.

To be whole. I am home here, on this page. At my writing workshops. I am home when you accept me as I am. When my words offer acceptance to you.

(This was written during the ongoing

Ochre Sky Stories

online writing workshop with a wondeful set of writers seeking wholeness of the self and our expression.)