Every apple pie, Christmas cake, rogan Josh, puttu kadala, spaghetti weekend, alu paratha and sushi salad that is ever described in a fictional universe found a way home. I cooked several meals in my head where friends were gathered round a table and did not judge each other except for being my friends.
I wondered then as I do now, even in my dreams, is this what home looks like?
I wondered then as I do now, even in my dreams, is this what home looks like?
Every shade of paint in existence found a way into the pallete,
Where the brush and I spent ourselves in a hurried frenzy
Making sense of the past and thumbing our noses at it
Painting self-adored and wholly private art on India tourism calender-backs.
Spiced tea lay witness to those nights and afternoons where Picasso and van Gogh vied for my mental health and insanity at the same time. Because at the pretext of art anything is possible. Five year old's scenery painted in tears, coffee stains and old school borrowed water colours with poetry scribbled in between.
I asked them that day, is this what home looks like for you?
The voices told me yeah it does, laughing and chiding.
Where the brush and I spent ourselves in a hurried frenzy
Making sense of the past and thumbing our noses at it
Painting self-adored and wholly private art on India tourism calender-backs.
Spiced tea lay witness to those nights and afternoons where Picasso and van Gogh vied for my mental health and insanity at the same time. Because at the pretext of art anything is possible. Five year old's scenery painted in tears, coffee stains and old school borrowed water colours with poetry scribbled in between.
I asked them that day, is this what home looks like for you?
The voices told me yeah it does, laughing and chiding.
My parents often recount their homes and memories, they sound good to hear for some parts and then there are silences and when I ask them, "is this what home looks like for you?",
They say, "No, you do." They leave their silences to me to fill with my colours.
They say, "No, you do." They leave their silences to me to fill with my colours.
For city dwellers like me, who have dreams of country vacation homes yet ambitious urban super sonic realities,
There is a particular pace of life and walking with our elbows tucked and heels clicking.
When we meet strangers we speak silence.
We do not make much eye contact,
Afraid of seeing the emotion
The depth of pain and it's recognition in the other pair of eyes.
No denial or anger can tarnish the exultation of possible happy endings to horror stories in human eyes.
Instead, we move on, just asking one question to every related stranger on the road:
"Is this what home looks like?
There is a particular pace of life and walking with our elbows tucked and heels clicking.
When we meet strangers we speak silence.
We do not make much eye contact,
Afraid of seeing the emotion
The depth of pain and it's recognition in the other pair of eyes.
No denial or anger can tarnish the exultation of possible happy endings to horror stories in human eyes.
Instead, we move on, just asking one question to every related stranger on the road:
"Is this what home looks like?
No comments:
Post a Comment