Home Pt. 1

A good friend once asked me what home meant to me. A question asked in passing struck a chord within me. I was shocked to come to terms with the fact that after nineteen years of existence, I never once thought about what was home for me. That one question got the gears turning in my head. Sitting on my balcony floor at my residence in Kochi at 3 in the morning with a book, a pen, my phone, and my headphones put everything into place. It opened up a whole new array of realisations that left me speechless.

I spent most of my childhood in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, so naturally, I attached the word "home" to my modest two-bedroom apartment. Dubai, the land that did US fast food chains better than the US, houses the smell of chicken in shawarma, barbeques, broasted kebabs, you name it. The land of the best chocolates (argue with the wall, please), chips that steal hearts everywhere. Combinations that seem bizarre initially will leave you wanting more after the first taste. The food alone in Dubai deserves a post all on its own. The land of even more Malayalis, where Onam is celebrated until December, the land where even people of other nationalities and dialects know and understand Malayalam and Hindi.

Despite all these, home in my earlier years meant the space under the vast study table where I crouch down to calm my racing heart down, or the window ledge with meaningless words on post-its and spur-of-the-moment artwork, the balcony with all of dad's lovebirds, the scattered bougainvillaeas and dried-up money plants, bizarre curtains that looks like it was stolen from Ramji Rao's theatre company and the wall tiles in the bathroom that resemble people. Spending 12 years in the country, with 10 years of my life oscillating between all the rooms of my apartment, automatically gave way to the idea that it was home. I had every nook and cranny of the flat etched into my skull. Suppose I peered closely through the holes in the broken switchboard in my room, I could see the streetlights' reflection shining on the pink bougainvillaeas' thin petals. Or how cricket match days and the start of a long weekend meant there would be a lot of cars revving on the streets or crazed fans screaming over a victory and how I should keep my earphones handy. I knew that turning on the kitchen's water heater is short-fused and can trip the current in the house.

This idea of home came crashing at my feet when I overheard my parents talking about relocating to Kochi for my further studies now that we have a permanent residence built in Kochi. The idea of relocating, attending a new school and meeting new people did not settle right with me. I used all my strength to dissuade my parents from resettling and later resigned to the fact that I had to move back because the land I called home was not my own, no matter what I was attuned to. The time came for me to break the news to my friends and accept that I wouldn't be as present in their lives as I was then, no matter how advanced technology was in breaking communication barriers. It was no easy feat to accept, as I did not know what lay in store for me on the other side of the waters, and I shamelessly blamed all my friends that left Dubai for not keeping in touch.

Even though I knew I was coming to Kochi, it was only when I landed at the airport did the realisation finally dawned on me. The umbrella of realisations included the fact that Kochi could be a fresh start from all the thoughts plaguing me back in Dubai. The naivety that thought held back then makes me want to roll on the floor and laugh now. Kochi never held a lot of appeal to me. As someone who had never seen the sights Kochi had to offer, my only idea about the place was that my relatives were spread out all over Kochi. Tourist attractions as a kid included a darshan to all my relatives and extended relatives. But as I settled into a routine, I realised the beauty of everyday commutes. How every bus from SN Junction that goes to Poothotta is familiar with the one odd girl from Choice using the public transport, a rare sight for the most part of it, the 90 rupees non-veg lunch and the 50 rupee brownie from the cafe that everyone went nuts over. Slowly, the mundanity of everyday life and the beauty hidden behind it consumed my being, and I realised how poorly I judged this city and its people. Slowly, Kochi meant more than the home I was forced to accept. Walking down Panampilly Nagar with my friends became something I looked forward to. The cake at Kashi, the French Fries at French Toast, and the Donuts from Donut Factory replaced my craving for fast food that only Dubai can make. My mind expanded its confines to accommodate Kochi as its new home.

As a homebody, despite the mouthwatering dishes at every restaurant joint in Kochi, home also meant Amma's manga achaar, the sambar that is often too sweet, omelettes specially made for me that did not have anything other than salt and dried red chillies and my personal favourite, dried prawns or onakka chemeen. The balcony in my room became my new comfort place, Bhasi's fur lining every piece of clothing and furniture in the house, blue and orange Lays and Kurkure packets that were 20 a piece became synonymous with home.

This again came crashing down when my parents proposed shifting back to Dubai for my undergrad. A change my mind was all ready for because Dubai meant seeing my old friends and going back to what was once comfortable. However, a small part of me wanted to stay back, go to a different city and be on my own. A quote from my favourite book had a line that said, "Life is not a wish-granting factory." Which was indeed the case. I was dragged out from my new home back to my old one.

Dragged seems like I was forced, but like before, it was more of resignation than force. There were a lot of raised voices and disagreements. Tired of the resentment and anger that stained the air in the house, I agreed halfheartedly to a college in Dubai. What was half-hearted initially turned into excitement as the prospect of moving back home to familiar places and faces became more real.