People always say, ‘home is not a place’, and I constitute a minuscule percentage of this demographic. But, I think I’ve changed my mind. Maybe home is a place?
You could go to the edge of the world, travel outer space, and visit the most exotic beaches and pristine mountains – but the butterflies on the flight back home are what keep this passion to explore fuelled.
The wine I tasted in Paris was undeniably experiential, but the buttermilk I get from the corner shop down the road is and will always remain unparalleled.
I tried on a kilt in Scotland for an authentic and local adventure, but it was nothing like the Sarees I find hidden in my mama’s closet, woven by the finest hand in the tiniest of villages.
I was told that the northern lights are a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but the myriad of emotions that I encounter on seeing a single bright star on a clear night from my balcony is all the dopamine I need in a day.
They say home is not a place, the ‘they’ being me, but I’m pretty sure I stand corrected.
Home is the dusty window-sills and creaky bed frames; it is the fragrance of a bland meal on a boring Wednesday night that brings the whole family to their feet and creates a ruckus; it is the soft pillowcase I rest my head on every night as my consciousness trickles into a dreamy haze I crave all day.
Not the perfectly crisp and ironed white satin covers that keep me awake all night.
Only my pillowcase can take me to that dream.
(Photo credits: Pexels)
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