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.
