There comes a point when you think well, this is it. You want to drop everything, lock that door from outside, bid the farewells with broad smiles and a heavy heart and go back.
Back home.
* *
It's half past ten and the 24-hour rain from yesterday has cast a chill spell across the city. The roads are gleaming under the street lights and yes, there's the frequent pool of muddy water all across and on the sides of the roads.
After a twenty-minute aimless cycling around deserted, semi-deserted and some street-light-less roads, I am near the turn that opens up into the colony I live in.
As I take the turn, a family walks out into the street. A tall dad in a white tee and short pants. A mom in a red, possibly embroidered chudidaar. And a beautiful kid between them, each parent holding one of the arms of the kid. The kid jumps around a puddle and breaks into a soulful laugh. I glimpse at the parents and their smile conveys all the joy in the world.
An inner joy bubbles in me and for the first time in a few weeks, I feel a peaceful stroke on the canvas of my mind.
Memories of "home" don't come crashing in. Nor do they haunt. I reminisce at this factoid as I drive further into the colony.
It's like the word has dropped out from my dictionary.
* *
There also comes a point when you know this is not it. You want to drop everything, lock that door from the outside, bid the farewells with broad smiles and a heavy heart and go back.
Back home.
But you don't know where home is. Your internal GPS locates various points on your map and each is a promising candidate for a temporary home. Beyond the few hours or days, you run the risk of running dry the courtesy extended to you for no particular reason, a courtesy you know you don't deserve. Above your pay-grade.
So you know you can't go anywhere either.
Suddenly, the world caves in. But it's happened before, multiple times, day-in, day-out and it's no longer a claustrophobic thing. As the days pass by, you get used to it.
The image of the happy family fades out and a curious mixed-bag of emotions reaches up to the brim deep within. The stray dog that knows you for an year runs up to you upon seeing you. He won't eat the biscuits till you pet him a couple of times. In a not-so-sudden manner, you realize that he's the only one greeting you happily; he's the only one happy to see you back.
Back home, may be.
May be.