This happened last weekend when my mom had come to Bangalore for a short stay.
I was standing in front of the mirror, trying to comb my hair in spite of the knowledge that the hair strands would go dancing in their own directions once I stepped out of the flat.
For some reason, my attention shifted to the bottom corner of the mirror and I noticed a small, circular maroon-colored bindi stuck there.
I slowly moved my fingers over it. I was reminded of the untiring efforts I had put in as a child to stand on my toes and reach up to the bindis adorning the mirror. I was also reminded of how I had learnt about the solar system using the maroon dots.
As memories flooded my mind, I looked at the mirror. My reflection was staring back at me from my bedroom in Chennai. He seemed at home.
And then it hit me.
Home is not the place where reminders of a family are stacked up in shelves. Home is not the place where you age along with the neighboring kid, the maidservant, the security guard and the seesaw of the apartment playground. Home is also not the place where the owner of the grocery store at the end of your street has seen your favorite drink evolve from Milo to Boost to Coffee.
Home is just the place where your most loved ones surround you.
Maybe, in a sense, we can all strive to be snails for a major part of our lives.
I was standing in front of the mirror, trying to comb my hair in spite of the knowledge that the hair strands would go dancing in their own directions once I stepped out of the flat.
For some reason, my attention shifted to the bottom corner of the mirror and I noticed a small, circular maroon-colored bindi stuck there.
I slowly moved my fingers over it. I was reminded of the untiring efforts I had put in as a child to stand on my toes and reach up to the bindis adorning the mirror. I was also reminded of how I had learnt about the solar system using the maroon dots.
As memories flooded my mind, I looked at the mirror. My reflection was staring back at me from my bedroom in Chennai. He seemed at home.
And then it hit me.
Home is not the place where reminders of a family are stacked up in shelves. Home is not the place where you age along with the neighboring kid, the maidservant, the security guard and the seesaw of the apartment playground. Home is also not the place where the owner of the grocery store at the end of your street has seen your favorite drink evolve from Milo to Boost to Coffee.
Home is just the place where your most loved ones surround you.
Maybe, in a sense, we can all strive to be snails for a major part of our lives.
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