Of finding my home…

A long time ago, a friend wrote about how she didn’t feel the need to buy a house because she already had found her home. Today, I was having a conversation with someone who was speaking about how the fact that I’ve moved a lot means I don’t feel like any place is ‘home’. It’s true, Doha was home, but not really because I somehow always knew a day would come when we would have to ‘go back home to India’. To me, Coimbatore wasn’t really home because the entire time that I was there I was trying to get out of there. I had two very close friends, but other than that I barely felt like I fit in because everything just felt so different. Chennai is just where my parents live, because they moved there after I moved out. Mumbai was just a place I lived in while I was at b-school, and while I loved it, it wasn’t my home. Gurgaon again was just a necessity because that’s where work was. I’ve been in Berkeley for over a year, and it’s nice but its not really home either. It’s interesting then, that I don’t really identify with home as a place. I have no roots that connect me to any place, my friends are scattered all over the world and my childhood memories are only in my head.

However, there was this time some years ago when I first really felt at peace somewhere. It wasn’t a place, but it was in a conversation – one that overlapped many subjects, and had a promise of many more stories to come. I’ve felt at home, and at peace multiple times since that conversation, through future conversations and silences. I’ve felt at home many times, in many different places, and the only constant has been the company I’ve had at the time. I think I knew this was it, the day that I realized this was all I need to feel at home. My home isn’t a place, it is a person and I am grateful for that.


2 thoughts on “Of finding my home…

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