So my blog seems to be dying.
But it's not, of course.
It is a part of me, and although parts of one's being can often die, my blog is not.
Not yet, at least. It is just resting more than usual.
Just like I am - at home.
Have you ever wondered what constitutes 'home'?
Is it the place you were born? Or lived all your life? The place where your parents stay? Or the place you feel happiest and most at ease?
Home can perhaps hold different meanings for different people.
And if you're like me and have moved home a lot, the definition can cease to hold the intrinsic value that it is assumed to.
Anyways, for the time being, home to me means Ahmedabad, the place I was born in but grew up away from. The city that is markedly bustling, noisy, industrial, yet has a distinct small-town pace and feel to it. The haven which taught me to love but not how to stop.
Home is the independent bungalow with pale-lilac walls that stands in a green but dusty neighbourhood, it is the bedroom with the many windows and bright lights where I sit reading or writing late into the night.
It is the sound of pressure cooker whistles going off in our own and neighbours' kitchens every evening, and the racket that's stirred up by the boisterous kids playing gully cricket or badminton or chor-police out on the narrow streets.
It is the periodic call of the Muezzins from the many nearby mosques, five times a day, and the yells of the mothers urging their kids to stop playing and attend prayers instead.
It is the sound of the television screening the same old hackneyed serials the nation is hooked to or the radio belting out the latest crass song from another unimaginative offering from Bollywood.
It is the smell of incense that hangs thick in the air, mingling with the flavors that emanate from the delicious somethings sizzling on the gas cooker in the forever-warm kitchen. And it is the din and buzz of two-wheelers and auto rickshaws and hawkers who come vending their wares door-to-door, day in day out.
It is the listless lethargy that refuses to leave no matter how much I try to focus on constructive tasks, and the solid, peaceful slumber that overcomes the minute I close my eyes every night, even though I am hardly tired.
It is a state of utter relaxation, of complete comfort, of freedom from even the most routine concerns. Home, it is heaven. Or something very much like it.
But it's not, of course.
It is a part of me, and although parts of one's being can often die, my blog is not.
Not yet, at least. It is just resting more than usual.
Just like I am - at home.
Have you ever wondered what constitutes 'home'?
Is it the place you were born? Or lived all your life? The place where your parents stay? Or the place you feel happiest and most at ease?
Home can perhaps hold different meanings for different people.
And if you're like me and have moved home a lot, the definition can cease to hold the intrinsic value that it is assumed to.
Anyways, for the time being, home to me means Ahmedabad, the place I was born in but grew up away from. The city that is markedly bustling, noisy, industrial, yet has a distinct small-town pace and feel to it. The haven which taught me to love but not how to stop.
Home is the independent bungalow with pale-lilac walls that stands in a green but dusty neighbourhood, it is the bedroom with the many windows and bright lights where I sit reading or writing late into the night.
It is the sound of pressure cooker whistles going off in our own and neighbours' kitchens every evening, and the racket that's stirred up by the boisterous kids playing gully cricket or badminton or chor-police out on the narrow streets.
It is the periodic call of the Muezzins from the many nearby mosques, five times a day, and the yells of the mothers urging their kids to stop playing and attend prayers instead.
It is the sound of the television screening the same old hackneyed serials the nation is hooked to or the radio belting out the latest crass song from another unimaginative offering from Bollywood.
It is the smell of incense that hangs thick in the air, mingling with the flavors that emanate from the delicious somethings sizzling on the gas cooker in the forever-warm kitchen. And it is the din and buzz of two-wheelers and auto rickshaws and hawkers who come vending their wares door-to-door, day in day out.
It is the listless lethargy that refuses to leave no matter how much I try to focus on constructive tasks, and the solid, peaceful slumber that overcomes the minute I close my eyes every night, even though I am hardly tired.
It is a state of utter relaxation, of complete comfort, of freedom from even the most routine concerns. Home, it is heaven. Or something very much like it.
When I see their happy faces smiling back at me
I know there's no greater feeling than the love of family.
Where can you go? When the world don't treat you right?
The answer is home. That's the one place that you find...
7th Heaven....
Posts
2 scribbles scribbled back to me:
You said it, dude! There's no place like your own place. I love my pad, dude. . .just like you.
Sweet!
:D
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