Finding home.....

Its been a while. I have been travelling, trying to settle down. Again. A new city, new work place, new room to stay, new weather, new traffic, new computer, new people, new food, new commute, new daily schedule. And this is the probably the 15th time in the past 7 years, since I left home at 18. Hostels, paying guests, apartments, hotels, college, work, school,internships,vacations at home ...time has flown by. While unpacking my luggage last night I was wondering what do I call home? The apartments which change sooner than I can adjust myself to a good night's sleep? The kitchens where I microwave frozen food, which I never equip completely assuming I will do it once I settle down finally, someday. Restrooms where I never get quite adapted to the mirror or the layout. The walls which are not mine, either they are adorned by photographs of families I don't know or they are bare. I make do by putting up the few photos of family and friends that I always carry, on my bedside. The cities whose roads I do not know. My suitcases and bags have to be kept handy all the time since I know my stay here is temporary.
Gone are those days when our family suitcases would come out once a year to be packed before a summer holiday trip. Mom would spend a week trying to ensure all the stuff that everyone will need was taken care of, lists were made, clothes were pressed and on the final day the suitcase was secured by tiny metal locks. Before taking off we would lock the windows and doors, let our maid go for her yearly vacation to her village and inform our neighbours that we are going to be away and that they should keep an eye on our "home". At the end of the vacation all I wanted to do was sleep on my own bed under the same ceiling fan, the noise of which I was so accustomed to that without it I wouldn't get a good night's sleep. Looking out of the window to find familiar faces in the neighbourhood, eating at the dining table, where I had my early meals as a toddler, on plates, that had been demoted to serve regular meals cause they could not be served to guests. The water from the steel filter seemed the safest to drink, the taste of the food, though we complained about it being boring everyday, was tuned to our palates. The shower head, though gushed out water with more strength than I would want, seemed like the only thing that could cleanse all the dirt.
The sound of familiar voices, the feel of familiar touch, the warmth of home.
The balcony where I have spent all my afternoons reading, playing sitting under the washed school uniforms which hung from the rope to dry and where my grandmom has narrated so many a story while tying my hair in plaits. The book case which housed my new brown-paper covered text books and the new story books bought at the book fair in January every year , the collection which had grown from Enid Blyton to Arundhati Roy accompanied all the way by Tinitin and Tinkle and of course my encyclopedias. Its all there in the glass doored wooden book case - my years of wisdom. The Godrej steel almirahs where Ma has stored our childhood clothes for our next generation to wear, with napthalene balls preserving them. The wall hangings collected from our trips, the paintings and photographs which I were a part of. The furniture whose corners had hurt my sister's and my knees while we ran around the living room chasing each other. The study table which was a support for so many years of my education especially during long nights before board exams, the drawers where I stored my secrets, the dressing table where I had sat and tried my first makeup. The television, music system, refrigerator and microwave which still serve us faithfully. The living room echoes the noises of the late night get-togethers, trivial arguments and birthday parties. The bedrooms remind me of the times when all four of us slept in the same bed because there was only one air-conditioner to keep us cool on humid summer nights. The staircases, the patterns of whose tiles are etched in my memory. The large Gulmohar tree, the tubewell, the grocery store..they all stand there the same.Thats my home. It does not have the amenities I would have liked it to have or interior decoration that I have dreamt of. But I don't think I can call anything else *home*.
To convert just a comfort zone to a home would take years of memories and familiarity. Hope I get there someday. Till then I ll miss home.