Home. It’s such a comfortable word, isn’t it? Home. Rest. Peace. Mom. Home. It doesn’t matter if you don’t own it, doesn’t matter if it isn’t huge or beautiful. Doesn’t matter if it’s just one room with a bed and a table. Nothing matters as long as you can call it home.
You fight your way through work, the traffic, the morons behind steering wheels with no clue about driving, the dust ‘n smoke and finally, home. Nothing matters the moment you cross over the threshold. You chuck the laptop on the table and slosh down on the comfy sofa. After 15 minutes of pure bliss, you get up and change. A shower, your alma mater’s T-shirt and the oldest, most comfortable pair of PJs – Armani? what Armani? I could go meet the Queen in these clothes! If they let me, that is.
Coffee in hand, you open the door to the balcony. You just missed the sunset – no worries, the sky is still saying good bye. The entire world in front of you, bathed in orange. Down on the easy chair, legs up on the stool, you stretch back and close your eyes. This is what heaven must feel like. The coffee never tasted as good. You catch the tune of an old melody in the wind. You see birds flying back to their nests, a cacophony of chirps. You don’t mind – the pings and drings of the laptop have numbed your ears – the sounds of life are always welcome. There are no sounds of automobiles or drilling machines. The only mechanical sound is that of a bus braking before the speed-breaker – the rickety ol’ bus reminds you of grandma’s village. You drift off into another world.
Time flew. It always does when you’re having a good time. The stars have come out. The moon’s playing hide and seek with the clouds. The breeze is cooler. It brings with it the smells of yummy things from the neighbor’s kitchen. It’s a different joy to realize it’s from your own kitchen. Dinner’s served. From one heaven to another.
Dinner, followed by some mangoes. You think they should make mangoes the national fruit or something. You drag yourself out of the chair and into the sofa – ‘kazhichchu kazhinjaal manushane onninum kollathillae!’. You switch the TV on and catch the last 5 minutes of the primetime soap. You wonder if they’ll ever move the story. You channel surf, only to doze off at channel no. 20. Sleep. The third heaven.
Home, sweet home.