Home is where the heart is and the heart longs only for a home

Home is an idea, a desire, a dream, at times. I foolishly look for it everywhere. Once I ended up in a public lavatory thinking it to be my home. Actually, I dozed off on the Italian marble floor of the deserted public toilet for almost two hours. Perhaps, I was snoring hard. Alarmed by the unusual noise emanating from the wash room, the cleaner came to check in. Her initial reaction was a scream, finding a huge body lying almost unconscious on the floor. Her shock was enough to wake me up. I was bemused at my own state. I apologised, saying I was feeling giddy after a heavy lunch and took the afternoon siesta. The creases in her face turned into a faint smile, she wished me luck for my future adventures. I bade her goodbye. In those two hours, I slept for a million years. That public lavatory is one of my many homes. I have built many homes, in many places, in many times, though mostly temporary arrangements. Finding a permanent solution is still an ambition to be arrived at. No, I don't dream of a beautiful cottage overlooking the snow-laden ranges of Himalayas, where I had spent bits and parts of my childhood, to be my home. Neither, do I attempt to turn a boat into a house to be ferried across the river Brahmaputra, when spring breeze would be at its modest best. No, nor, do I secretly aspire to own a three-bedroom flat, in a posh locality of Bangalore, my present abode. Then, what do I crave for? The answer is simple, a home. In that simple basic aspiration of mine, many complex narrations lie hidden beneath. Deep they are, started when I was a toddler. I could not get enough time to reconcile to the fact that born in the family of a gypsy, a home can be, and often is under the blue sky. Holding hands of my parents, I grew up crossing hundreds of miles of Rajasthan desert with a thirsty throat, was once lost in a crowded street of Bombay (now, they call it Mumbai), had enjoyed mouthwatering Chinese noodles in a Calcutta (again, it has mutated into Kolkata) restaurant, had bathed naked in the icy water of the Ganges in the December chill, all of them have housed me, nurtured me, whispered me into my youth, now I am proudly glowing in my old age. The shimmering grey in my hair is a testimony to my present reality. The wrinkles are now taut and adamant whenever I smile in amusement. By the time father built a home for us and settled down, as signalled by his cracked heels, I was pushed to move again, in search of the unknown. They say gypsies are not supposed to stay affixed in a land. Trees are the only rooted objects. That is why they are so quiet and sombre. An animated soul should literally fly. Taking a walk is a mild exercise. They should explore continents, rivers, mountains, deserts, and if possible sky, explore till their feet give away, and dirt-laden cracked heels cry in agony, "time to rest." I often look at my cracked heels, and converse with them, "time to retire, right?" The answer would be as always, "miles and miles away, before home is to be found." I would rebuke, "Bloody hell! I am tired. Permit me to end my journey." All I would encounter was silence—a deafening silence. I can understand their annoyance at my repeated questioning. Obsession, as they say, mostly sprouts from deprivation. As I find everyone and everybody owing and possessing a house of their own--even if it is raised on four bamboo poles and a flimsy piece of polythene sheet above the structure--I long to master a home. I wish to rule myself for a while. Somewhere I am tired of being too free, lost, and wandering aimlessly. And, it is in those intense moments of too much longing, that I want to surrender myself to the comforts of the four walls of a home. I do realise, I have, but no luxury of a home. But, I have many homes, what if I don't own them, possess them, master them, but I have lived in them, and they too have lived many lives with me. Now, don't ask, how could I be so sure? Arrey! They have all whispered to me, told me in those lazy hours of life, that in living a few hours of togetherness in silence is next only to a pilgrimage. The arithmetic of ownership is beyond the comprehension of even a genius. After all, I have always proudly flunked in my mathematics exam year after year in my school. So, going back to calculation would be another attempt of indulging in foolishness, and that too at a time, when I want to prove myself smarter in front of my mirror image, at least. So, here I surrender my urge of owning and possessing. I am free again. Vagabonds for sure, if not anything else know how to keep themselves away from proprietary rights. It is absolutely hassle-free. Perhaps, all these years, I have not looked beyond searching for a home. Perhaps, the temporary or insecure nature of my home was bothering me a lot. I was so much fixated with the idea of finding a permanent address, that I had forgotten to enjoy the many roofs and ceilings under whose shadow I was allowed to dream my weirdest of dreams, at times I had nightmares too. In many homes I live, in many lives I live. I live in air, water, desert, sky and moon (not impossible, India's Chandranayan mission is after all a realisation to that aspiration). Next time, I won't dare to ponder over my homelessness state. After all, I claim to possess almost everything nature could ever offer me. But, perhaps, I will ponder again, question lack of a secure environment, when I would be thrown out, or treated as an alien in someone's land (home), in sometime.