.a written note.

You know the lane by heart, because you carried it everywhere you went. The cracks on the wall, the colour of the powder when you grated bricks for fun, the smell of summer evenings and the sound of quiet afternoons because children were supposed to sleep till 4 o’clock. Along those lines live the directions the kids gave to the autowallas on the way back home back home, back home. Where the trees are intact albeit not ageless, you’ve carried with yourself the smell of water splashed on mud and cement. The sound of children of the house cheering, playing hide and seek till 8 o’clock. I want to write more, about the hours occupied in laughter, conversations and more of them, about the hungry lunch times and a relaxing ritual of tea-making or brewing great-grandmother’s coffee. about the annual ritual of going through wheat grains, rice and lentils. I want to write more, but how can one define the colour of nostalgia?

Summer afternoons are at times tough. They’re usually filled with idle sittings in your bedroom and if something really strikes your mind, a little bit of artwork. Apart from this, there are constant winds driving your mind to the good ole days when summer used to be an exciting thing. I really am not trying to sadden this post or the day for that matter by giving my thoughts a finishing touch of nostalgia. But you know what, they’re thoughts. They’re unplanned. They’re natural. At least one of the very few things that remain untouched by the manual work of a human being. Getting back to the topic, home, it’s quite fitting to one’s mind how the picture of your home is always there resting somewhere at the back of one’s mind. The walls, the familiarity of the wall-paint inside and outside and its warmth. Whenever I visit home, i.e. once every two months or sometimes more, I take along with myself the invisible shelter above my head that the home had gifted me when I left...

I miss that place. There are often moments when all the happening things around your happening current city cease to please. There come moments when all you need is somewhere warm. A place where you can just crawl in bed at the end of the day and don’t have to talk to people compulsorily, if you don’t feel like. And it’s not like it makes any difference. It doesn’t. It’s the one place where you don’t get showered with work assignments and time-bound targets. I enjoy my work, I do. I absolutely do. But being a Fresher in the middle of all work-oriented corporates has its own advantages (really?) and disadvantages. I repeat, I enjoy my work! But guess what, you know, it’s that time of the year when your mind fills with all that Mom-made food, your hometown’s special treats (although small and ordinary) and then there is that chillness, relaxation in being jobless because there aren’t any targets to be achieved or there’s no one to ‘report’ to. I do like my job. I even f...

I am on my way home. No matter where I go, as I get nearer to our house, people I see in the way seem to be known, familiar even if they really aren't. I remember how outgoing of a person I'd been, but last two years seemed to have changed everything. Seemed to have changed me in the first place. If I have changed, everything else has too, bit by bit. I'll remember how these years like some pages from my diary. I've reached home. My home. Yes, I know how it feels like to call something as yours. Completely yours.