Home is where…
…using my hairbrush as a mic I dance in front of the mirror and create my own spotlight.
Home is where I can be unabashedly me, it’s where I come back to myself every night, no matter how far away I wander during the day. If I want to put potato on cheese pizza and dance to classical songs, I can, because I’m home. If I want to paint my belly blue with ball pens and sing an unintelligible cacophony, I can, because I’m home.
I know I am home when I’m sitting in my own bedroom but can tell with certainty what’s happening in other rooms. Home is filled with harmless slugfests and lots and lots of complaining and shouting. It’s where mommy doubles up as a referee. It is where I can waste away time in my ridiculous pyjamas all day long. And it is here that I feel deserving even on my worst days.
Homes, no matter how big or small, are filled with memories. Beautiful, happy and sad memories that are powerful enough to trigger nostalgic tears and send you sprinting down the memory lane.
For me, home is all about the drawing room that too small for the crowd, and the dining table that is overflowing with boxes. It’s the dusty painting I made in 10th grade. It’s the balcony door that’s missing a latch and the chair that’s too, too big for the study table. It is the bedroom that’s almost never tidy but is still the best place in the world♥
Home is naturalness. A complete lack of reserve, an absolute awareness. In my own home, I will be able to find my way around even in complete darkness, because I know exactly how the furniture is placed. I know which tap leaks, which floorboard creaks, which switchboard is missing a switch and which cushion is the softest.
At home, I know at what time of the month the moon will shine right into the bedroom’s window. I know which mirror flatters me the most. I can tell who’s at the door, judging simply by the way they ring the bell. Home is made of mom’s famous Rajma Chawal, sister’s annoying laughter and papa’s calm love. Home is where the clutter is all mine. It is all about perfect imperfections.
Coming home placates me no matter how emotionally devastated I am.
Having a home means knowing predictability in an uncertain world.
Being Home means not having to do anything but knowing that everything will be taken care of.
Home is where I can be naked. Both emotionally and physically. It is total acceptance, flaws and all.
Home is waking up everyday in familiar, comfortable surroundings. It’s a sense of belonging. It is where the weightlessness and the feeling of inadequacy disappears.
Houses are made of bricks and cement. But homes? Homes are made of laughter, anecdotes, dreams, emotions and love. Home is where the heart is.
And perhaps someday, I’ll find my home in a person.
Tell me, what’s your home like?
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