Home is what you call your roots. The place that shields you, nurtures you, comforts you – that, my dear, is your root. That is who you are. The place, the people, everyone, and everything around you, make you. So it gets difficult to detach those overt and covert, subtle and obvious strings that you so carefully nourish for a considerable amount of time of your life, when you leave your city. You are probably not intending to detach your ties literally, but the possibility of a physical proximity diminishes. A part of you remains there. A part of yourself is carried to the new place where you plan to settle for the years to come. The new city may welcome you, be all kind to you, but you can never ever call it home. A string constantly tugs you at the heart, to come back.
This city has given me a lot, has taught me things – how to laugh, how to live, how to fight back; this city has always been a comfort zone – a place where I can always lean on when I’m too exhausted, scared or scarred to think of anything else. The nooks and corners of this place has always haunted me. Its old charm, the grandeur, the must, the dust, the heat, the rain clogged streets, the chaos, the colour – I am going to miss it all.
This city knows about my mischiefs, midnight pranks, endless chatter, silences, lonely strolls, guffaws with close ones, sweet nothings, falls, and efforts to rise again. It knows a little too much about me to break its trust.
‘This city knows about all my firsts;
And the more I try to run away from it, it closes in upon me’.