The Old Ships Draw to Home again

 Its a little past midnight. A sheet of cold drapes the night air. I can hear the soft drizzle of rain outside, clouding up my window. Other than that it’s quiet, so much so that I can hear the sound of crickets through the tightly shut windows. It’s the kind of quiet that I am only getting used to. Not being one of the brave hearted, I tune into John Mayer and cling to my blanket a little tighter for warmth and safety.

A few minutes, and I am fine.

It’s been four days since I got home, after killing away time in Mumbai, only to kill some more here. In the hours before my flight took off, I had qualms about wanting to go home. For a while it appeared to be a specious thing to do, going all the way home to unwind, when I could do so in Bombay. Yes, my thoughts all the more prove how dim-witted I can get at times. Now that I am here, I couldn’t possible compare the two places.

In the interiors of an already geographically isolated state Assam, is our house or rather aptly, Home. It is surrounded by tea gardens, and neighbors that I know nothing of. The down fall of studying in boarding schools being I am more or less friendless here. This is where my little parrot comes in picture. I would rightly use the noun “brat” for him, but my sister would defend him and say he is adorable. So I say he is an adorable brat. Considering his sudden love for me, after 14 years of only being loyal to the maids, I am never without company. He follows me all around the house, even to the washroom. He very gentlemanly joins me for every meal, not for once complaining about the bones in the fish or number of cashew nuts in the sweet dish. So yeah, I wouldn't be sincere to him if I whine about being lonely.

My mom, well she is the kind of person you see in a party who sits smiling and listening to all the ladies tittle-tattle, not interested to talk too much, chipping in a few expert opinions every now and then. However at home, she is the one who does all the talking; filling me in about all those things she could have anyway told me over the phone but saved them for when we meet up. I might not be very interested in the people she brings up, but it’s always a joy to hear and watch her talk.

My dad, as he takes me for my afternoon driving lessons, confides in me like I am a grown-up. We drive, resolving his dilemmas and mine. It usually feels like I am out driving with an old friend, taking up the road to avoid the world for an hour and leaving it behind while we drive on.

And a little out of picture right now, but still always there, is my sister. I couldn’t possibly write of home without in the least mentioning her. She is rarely ever here when I am, but she makes the small flat that we now share slightly closer to home.

Perhaps my parents are like all parents, my home like everybody else’s. However after years of being away from them, I have realized that no matter how I am or what I am doing, at the end of the day it is home that I want to go to. It’s not my room, my bed, the weather or even the good food, but the love. The kind of love that I doubt anyone can ever outweigh.

And when my parents remark at how thin I have become or how I never ride the bicycle anymore, I know that they are looking back at a part of my life that probably no one else remembers.

So in spite of the PC borrowed from the dinosaur age, moody cell phone network, the dead parties I am dragged to and civilization being miles away, I LOVE HOME.

- Link for cartoon here