Finding my way back home

People often forget to appreciate all the things that make their house a home, it's only human. You get used to the comfort and grow accustomed to your surroundings.

I moved out of my house at eighteen, to pursue a B.A in english. I shared my rented flat with a few roommates during those days, out of which only one grew to become my friend. Regardless, I felt lonely. I used to go to a college full of students my age, eat with them, live with them, splurge on stupid things with them, talk badly about our cheapskate landlords with them and yet, I'd never felt so alienated. I was homesick. Horribly so, and it took me an awfully long time to figure it out.

I had learned to cook at home , but my dishes never really tasted like mom's. I still wonder why. The food started tasting worse once I started living with my roommates, I hated having to cook for everyone but the only alternative was the canteen and the food in the mess made us feel like we were prisoners. I felt sluggish, no matter how much I slept, no matter how much or how little I studied, no matter how expensive the food I ate was. It felt like I was just trudging my way through some days, as if on autopilot. I often wondered why I even needed to do this course, I mean, do you really need a degree to be a writer? Not really. These are the things I said to convince myself to opt out of college. The first semester went by in a blur of sorts, and then I had enough. I took a break and went home.

I noticed things normally unnoticed. The smell of our house as soon as I entered was something I'd never thought about. The worn down lilac and red curtain sets we switched between once in a while were gone now, I didn't realise I'd liked them so much.The carpet in the living room was the same as before, it's edges a tad bit frayed, with Barfi perched on it, demolishing someone's slippers. Classic Barfi. She'd grown older though, her once jet black coat had started turning white towards her snout. The walls looked repainted, but they were still the same peachy colour. Maybe it was because I had grown up here, or because I hadn't been home for so long, or the fact that my heart resided where my people did, but my former sluggishness had evaporated, leaving only joy behind.

Mother too, was unchanged as expected, pulling me along to the kitchen to tell me how thin I looked, catch me up on the latest gossip, ask about any girls I liked and lastly, ask about school and roomates. Yes, in this order. She has her priorities straight. Her eyes gleamed as she told me about how dad had recently gotten a raise and what T.V series she was watching and what all food she'd make for me. The sheer act of being at home made me giddy.

Food connects us, it really does. Whether we make it together, eat it together or make it for someone. My family always used to eat together at night, while we recounted all the eventful things in our day. Albeit, the dinner table was also the court of the most heated political discussions. Despite mom's protests, I cut the vegetables while she made the actual dishes, talking the whole time about anything and everything under the sun.

The steam and aroma of the spices hit me at the same time, and tears sprung to my eyes, not because it stung, rather it made me too happy. I blamed the tears on the hot food and tried to hide them, so as to not make mom sentimental and demand that I leave college. This was it, I think. It wasn't about me not cooking well or not getting the exact same ingredients as here, or about about the fanciest of herbs and spices. It was about eating food made with love, attached to the memories I loved. It's eerily easy to take these things for granted when you get to experience them everyday.

Now that I think of it, love actually is shown in many subtle ways, almost always unnoticed by us kids. It's something I realised very very, late. It's shown in the way my mother offered the better looking parts of our meals to me and my brother, the way my father always kept the fridge stocked with everyone's favourite fruits, the way he used to always play with us even when he had heavy bags under his eyes, or the way mom wouldn't directly say much, but would rather bring cut up fruits after a bad argument to make peace.

I'd been a classic teenager, eager to get out of this house and get new experiences, make new friends. I'd ventured out and learned, seen so many types of people, and been enraptured by it all. I'd made mistakes, failed, gone out to party, spent too much money, and felt like a newly born deer in a lion's den.

At the end of the day, nothing could compete with the heaven that was my abode.

At last, I found my way back home again.