The emphasis on finding home is nowhere near subtle. Sometimes in people that leave (strangely because this time, the house is leaving and not the resident) and sometimes in the beaches that watched you grow from two to twenty.
I’ve written about the all the places and people and things I called home. Actual home, Bangalore, friends, my laptop, a book, a bottle of cold water that I sometimes pretend is wine.
But I read something today,
You become a resident of a city when you start calling its news stations and anchors your own, when they become more familiar to you than the ones you left behind. You become a part of a place when you don’t need Google Maps to get around, when you know how to take the back roads when traffic clogs up.
and I think of how home isn’t home anymore, and how I can’t wait to leave this town and fall into strange roads and arms. These roads are no longer familiar, old friends have new friends and no one waves from across the street. and I’ll never change how I feel about this place. I know just where to go when I have a bad day, and where you get the best coffee and the best pani puri and these things remain, but it’s strange that it’s gotten lonely.
It’s all familiar but I am still lost. All this is home, but I’m the stranger, I’m the outsider. Maybe it’s only because it’s been 3 years since I’ve been here this long, but it shows me how much I don’t belong.
and I remember when home meant the opposite of that. When I leave again, maybe I’ll long for it, for the silence, for a week or two and then I can’t wait to go back again to places that ‘have life, have personality’.
I think home is starting to sound like that messed up place you can never really tell if you want to run to, or run from.