Funeral of Sunflowers

Bright yellow sunflowers lie on the hardwood table where I wait for you. It’s a gloomy day; the brief winter chill in the air and low hanging clouds make it almost blasphemous for the bouquet of the flower to look so bloody beautiful. As I tap my fingers against the table waiting for you, I see them. Us. Sitting on the same hardwood bench we first met, sharing their embarrassing stories over coffees, one expresso, and the other latte. A sad smile takes over my face as I reminiscence the afternoons of spring and evenings of monsoon we spent here, talking for hours, almost forgetting the coffee and cigarettes.

Now, I sit here alone, sipping the coffee, while my heart aches as it finds something to fill the void you left. My eyes betray me as they steal a glance now and then towards the small blue door of the café, hoping you’ll walk in and I’ll get to see your scotch brown eyes light up once more as they catch my glimpse, but alas, my brain knows better than for those doors to swing open.

Hour after hour passes, the box of cigarettes in my bag is almost over, and my coffee is long gone. The evening sun already bid its farewell and now twinkling bulbs of the café shine over my head as I still wait, wait for you to come back, wait for chaos, the memories play in my head to go away. My fingers hurt now as they keep tapping the table out of habit but then without the purpose and hope of an impending visitor. I remember the last time I met you here, the warmth of your hand in mine intertwined in an almost ironclad grip; you didn’t want to let go, and neither did I. But as the last call for orders is announced, I realize you’re long gone, and I am the one holding on, holding on to the empty hope and promises.

As “Without Me” by Halsey blares in my ears, I walk out with the bouquet of sunflowers which gave up their façade of bright and lovely beings and now lie limp, waiting to wither away. I stand on the very pavement where I saw you last, there are still so many stories we are yet to share so many memories we need to make but not all stories, not all memories need to be shared, sometimes the stories are short for a reason, they are meant to end there even if you don’t want to, like that book you read too fast which ended too soon, and now you sit waiting for the next one, but for us, there is no next book, no next chapter. As I leave the sunflowers on the pavement, bidding them a tearful adieu, I see a lanky figure standing with a single sunflower looking at the empty road; our eyes meet for a brief second, we share a limp smile. As I ride away on my bike, I realize that he was there for the funeral of sunflowers as well.  

Home – Destination Unknown…

As I packed up the same bags for the third time in the same city which was home for the last 14 months, the sepia-tinted nostalgia tugged at the strings of my heart. Taking off the decorative flags from my window frame took more effort than putting them up did, my hands trembling with a deep-set sorrow. My tiny pink apartment now stripped completely of all the trinkets that made it feel like home; my bag strained with the weight of both the memories and all the extra knickknacks I could possibly stuff in it. When the last of the bags were packed up and my eyes gazed around the tiny 1BHK, tears pricked at my eyes but before I could delve into the never-ending pool of despair, my phone screen lit up with the flight notification, giving the final countdown to my departure. Trying to keep me from a breakdown in front of the inspecting broker, I quickly booked my cab, as I waited for my driver to arrive I sat on the bag full of memories and let my brain take nosedive into the pool of despair.

   A few months ago, if you would’ve asked me what was home I would’ve said blurted out the name of this city without missing a heartbeat but now I don’t know, what home actually feels like and what do we mean by home anyways?  As a kid, home meant the place where you are safe and happy and all your favorite people are present there. But as I grew up the apartment where I lived with my family became a trap for my soul rather than that safe warm place, my favorite people no more my favorite, I soon realized the difference between a house and home. My young adult self, found escape finally in the form of college in a totally different city, bigger and blingier than my hometown. Not realizing that I was not only leaving behind the only home I ever knew for 18 years of my life but only people who really knew me as well. As the hostel room became the new “house” for me, I decorated the blank canvas with memories and people who made the new city home but soon I realized I didn’t have any idea what home was; this new city felt like an uncomfortable blingy dress where you struggle to breathe and the hometown like a rugged hoodie you probably have tattered from wearing too long but yet again keeps you warm and comfortable but you can’t wear it forever. My 20 something self found herself lost again in the big city lights only to find a home in a few people, as I settled in my reality and home, it was time to empty the hostel room which was now home to me and say goodbye to it and shoving all the memories into a small bag, all the late-night drives, all the clubbing nights, all the brunch dates, 3 am conversations, both my bag and my mind struggled to keep this plethora of memories intact and safe.

  If my hostel and college ruined my perception of home, Mumbai shattered it completely, but soon my soul found comfort in the chaos of the city’s noise and people, as I explored the city with my own company or a random stranger, the storm inside me settled slowly and steadily as I sank in the chaos and found my new home in the people of the city of dreams. The message notification on my screen pulled me out of my reverie, it was time to leave. As I kept away the keys to yet another house I called home and got in the lift, my heart sinking with each floor we crossed, the tears finally took over. As I sat in the cab before I could put on my earphones and take a deep dive into my personal hell, the radio started playing “Iktara”, aptly enough the song which worked as my final goodbye to the city, as we drove down Western Express Highway and the city’s familiar skyline flashed by me dulled by the grey clouds hanging low, similar to the day I landed in the city for the first time ever. As T2 approached, my heart started beating faster than usual and drowning out the music from the radio and the din of the city before the second emotional breakdown of the day would start my cab driver asked, “Madam ghar kidhar hai apka?” (Where is your home?) ” I mumbled my usual response and then I asked him where he was from and I expected the cliché response but his answer surprised me, “Madam esa hai na ki koi bhi jagah ghar ho sakti hai, bas yeh humara mann nahi manta…Mumbai ne sikha diya hai jaha mann ka sukoon ho voh ghar hai chahe humari yeh taxi ho ya kholi…” (I won’t translate it in English because I think the true meaning will go away). Before I could react we pulled over into the entrance of T2 and after unloading my luggage, as I looked at the glass structure of the airport, it dawned on me how correct the driver was.  It is never about the place, it is about how it makes you feel, where your heart feels at home and maybe just maybe sometimes your heart feels better in a certain place than others. I guess I’ll never know what home is but it is definitely a mixture of that hug from your best friend, that late-night conversation with your roommate, the 3:45 am drive in the drizzle and silence of the city, that early movie show, chai dates with your parents and so many little things which I will carry in my heart forever.