If I could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Well, I am hearing Where is HOME?
My answer is an epic poem written many years ago. So here goes…
In the fading fragrance of a lone drop of lavender at the edge of the pillow of the love of my life
In the tender crook of his wobbly arms
In the black corduroy case my fingers sew for his flute
In the back seat of the silver cab that he took when he left me standing alone that night, one last time
In his ambiguous replies that always concealed something and revealed nothing
In the moon light that touches our faces, at once closing the gap between us albeit only in distance
In the flame of the dying moment he stood apart, never trying to bring us closer
In the togetherness that went unattained
In the glowing embers of my heart that never stops loving him, no matter what
In the glimmer of a single strand of silver hair coiled in my mother’s yellow comb
In the edge of my sister’s forgiving eyes
In my brother’s endless generosity
In my Dad’s forever young caustic hilarity
In the guileless hug of my cousin’s child
In the tenacious faith of a childhood friend
In my unconditional love for a man who probably doesn’t even deserve it
In the sublime kiss of a child named Iris who often visits me in my dreams
In the heart of the man from Denmark who I will save someday near camp 3 on the South face of Mt. Everest
In the tree line at the edge of the first horizon I see from my window
In the sun that rises everyday over the rocky hill a few miles away
In the lone tree on the rocky edge of the hill that fights for its precarious existence every single hour
In the pine trees of Ooty playing hide and seek with the rays of the Sun
In the mud roads of Castlerock where I used to run hand in hand with Juber; our laughter piercing the lull of many an afternoon siesta
In the sound of our thumping hearts, as we raced as free as the stallions of a mystical wild, wild west
In the branch of the Guava tree on which I perched myself hours on end as a 5 year old pondering about nothing in particular
In the rolling tea gardens of Darjeeling
In the prayer wheels of a Buddhist Monastery in Manali
In the comfort of the colour Black
In the folds of a 40 year old heirloom saree belonging to my dead grandmother
In the stripes of a favorite black and white T shirt
In the tattered label of an old blue chambray shirt
In the folded cuffs of a linen shirt dress
In the soft drape of a crepe scarf
In a white hand painted silk dress I will never be able to donate
In the memory of the warmth of a 30 year old pink sweater
In the green chiffon dress worn on 21 July 1997 when I last saw the boy, who would drown saving his friends 4 years later
In the lustrous spider web at the edge of my teak table
In the bass of the third string of my out of tune violin
In the forgiving icons on my altar
In the broken blue terracotta tea cup that patiently heard many a fascinating dream of mine in the wee hours of the dawn
In an old Kodak camera that captured precious moments of my life peppered with laughter and song until its demise
In the screen saver of a Motorola slim phone which gave away my secret love affair
In the Titan Chrono watch I spent my salary on, that got lost in a train to Goa
In the hazel eyes of a nameless cat that made my lap it’s home for 3 months
In an old Philips radio set that is constant company these days
In the math classes of a super friendly Sir, who is no more
In the dimpled laughter of a long lost gay friend
In a lone photograph with my mentor
In the painting dedicated to a friend, now out of touch
In the unspoken words behind the twinkle of a crush when his eyes met mine and time stood still
In the unruffled windswept hair of a married man, I unwittingly fell for
In the High School slam book which reveals the name of the one boy I wanted to talk to but never really did
In the clearest pair of eyes of an army man I shared my seat with on a train journey
In the lovely nape of a man I saw 17 years ago riding pillion in a bike, on my way to college
In the lyrics of the song ‘Love is all around’ by Wet Wet Wet written secretly before math class on the black board of room 203 in college
In the Greatest hits cassette tapes of Eagles and MLTR, played alternatively every single day after school
In the last couple of lines of James Blunt’s You are beautiful
In the husky rasp of a Bryan Adam’s song that’s not heard anymore
In the rising falsetto of OneRepublic’s Ryan Tedder
In the expressive basal notes of Coldplay
In the momentary stillness before 5:44 in Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah
In the perky Linkin Park song that suddenly pops up in an until-then boring play list
In the quivers of my breaking heart while I listen to Mohammad Rafi’s “Na kisi ki aankh ka noor hoon (I am not the light of any one’s eyes)”
In page 217 of Peter Matthiessen’s Snow Leopard
In the tears shed in the curled up pages of “Into The Silence”
In Dostoevsky’s mesmerizing words
In the horrifying portrait of Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray
In Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage protagonist Philip Carey and his all consuming destructive love for Mildred Rogers
In a gifted copy of Love Story I gave away to a library
In a copy of Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat I gifted to my ex-love
In the twin copy of “The Prophet” by Khalil Gibran that was shared with a dear friend as a send-off gift
In the pirated copy of Orwell’s dystopian 1984
In the last 500 metres of an 18km barefoot trek to find Lord Shiva
In the 10km walk on the leech infested railway tracks to DudhSagar Falls in pouring rain amidst the most gorgeous valley in Western Ghats
In the deep gorge in Devprayag, the point of confluence of two mighty rivers of India from where they begin to flow as one, The Ganges
In the paws of Shemru, a Tibetan Bhotia dog who taught me to love again while on a trek to find a Shiv Ling inside a natural cave of stalagmites
In the lonely trek to the origin of River Yamuna high up a mountain with the gurgling sound of the flowing river down below as the only company
In the 3555 steps I climb every year on a pilgrimage to my favorite temple town
On the 94/6 mile marker in Kandikhal in Tehri Garhwal district of Uttarakhand on which I sat for hours soaking in the sun after a lazy lunch
In the park in Kodai where I finally found the once in 12 year blooming Kurinji flowers after a really long wait
On the 5th floor ledge that was supposed to plunge me to my death 22 years ago
In the restlessness, when at an unearthly hour the train is fast approaching my city after a long trip out of town
In the insane joy that fills my body when despite my core screaming to stop, I push forward to do a couple more oblique crunches
In the middle of doing menial household chores when I suddenly begin to hum an old forgotten melody
In the lonely bus ride home when my head plays a violin concerto while my ears listen to Queen’s I want to break free
In the poems of a long lost friend Benjamin that sear my skin bare to the bones
In the inspiring F-Word Fridays of Sabrina that push me to break down walls that constrict me
In the macabre world of Matthew that always fills me with awe and wonder
In the sage like advices my cool tangerine Yoga Mat dispenses every morning
In the few hours of bliss Mx. Sleep graces upon my otherwise hyperactive insomniac self
In my persistent refusal to commit
In the crippling fear of the death of my family
In the fear of dying alone
In all the memories that will fade away in time from my memory palace
In all the memories that will eventually take their place
In all the tempting roads I never took
In the dreams I let go, to pursue the ones I considered worthwhile
In all the words I never spoke
In all the words I will never write
In the Harley 2012 FLRH Road King I ride on unending roads in my dreamland
In the ultra rare Lamborghini Veneno I will never own
In the Grand Piano I will never be able to play
In the H.C. Silvestre Cello that adorns a lovely room in my memory palace
In the highest notes my songs will never hit
In all the good words of the world my eyes will never get to read for lack of time
In every grain of Earth my feet might never walk on
In all the men I will never love because of the one that got away
In the children I will never bear
In the bus tickets used as book markers
In my blank white canvasses
In the rustle of the trees playing inside my drawing book
In the peeling lime green paint of my room
In the artwork of an old calendar
In the dried flower hidden in an old diary
In my battered laptop
In the ever changing tie-dye colours of the skies
In the butterfly like constellation that waves at me wherever I am
In the tin jar that contains my precious tea
In roasted groundnuts and toasted almonds
In a bag of potato chips
In a humble meal of Roti and Dal
In steaming White rice and a ladle of Sambar
In the aroma of a slow cooking pot of Biryani
In the tomato and green chilli plants that greet me every morning in my kitchen garden
In the Death ivy plant in my garden that refuses to untangle itself
In the weed that refuses to die
In the trance like state my mind enters when I overhaul my sewing machine
In the silence of my mind despite the rickety rackety sound it makes while I sew
In the drop of blood my needle leaves behind as a mark of its tough love for me
In the wrinkled lines of my aging palm that are taking me from here to there
In the tolling temple bells and muezzin calls that wake me up much before the alarm goes off
In the conceding tears when prayers go unanswered
In the sage like calm moments I pride myself with on numerous occasions
In the detachment that comes only with age
In the valuable lessons that failures teach more than successes
In the slower monochromatic times of peaceful yesterdays
In the fast paced chaotic times of today filled with a riot of colour
In the gap between a day and night
In the silence between two consecutive breaths
When my heart says Yes and mind says No and I don’t know who to listen to
In all the things I have touched and all the things that have touched me
In all of the things that will die with me
In all of the things that will stay on even after my death
In the ashes of my bones that will scatter themselves over the entire expanse of the planet someday
Where is HOME?
It is in your eyes as you read this
It is wherever we are now
It is Everywhere
It is Nowhere
It is Here today with us
It will be Here tomorrow without us
Home just IS…
Always will BE…
Written first in January 2019 for an older blog of mine Peep into my memory palace. Published here again with a few minor tweaks; the changes in perception that dawns on all of us as we get closer to Death.
Behind the scenes:
A simple question by one of my favorite bloggers Matthew of abysspost in response to an older poem of mine made me ponder about what HOME means to me while on a road trip to the innermost part of my Dad’s home town.
His Question after he read the poem titled Beyond You: Are we ever home?
My reply to him was with another question: Depends on Where is HOME, No?
Once I reached my humble brick and mortar abode after that exhausting trip, the answer to my question flowed. Like a River in spate.
Who can define what Home really means?
Despite my lengthy unrestrained attempt, it still feels like I have just touched the tip of the iceberg though!
In 3 little words, HOME just IS.
It is wherever I am, because I am my HOME.
HOME is in all the disintegrated parts of me that have merged themselves within the things I have written about and in so much else that I have not been able to…yet.
HOME is in Family, in Love, in Nature, in Music, in Cinema, in Sleep, in Dreams, in Failures, in Laughter, in Silence, in Fears, in Tears, in Imperfection, in Vulnerability, in Decisions, in Consequences, in Faith, in Madness, in Letting Go, in Contentment, in Breaking Rules, in Chaos, in Harmony, in Boredom, In Randomness, in Being Incomplete and most definitely in Death too.
And HOME is certainly in all the lives we couldn’t live so we could live the one we willingly choose to.
So ask me again. Where would I live if I could live anywhere in the world?
Anywhere. As long as I am with me, I am HOME.
In ME.
Care to drop a tiny pearl from the ocean of your mind?