Somewhere deep within, I feel a quiet longing. When I brace my ailing heart to say goodbye to a place I’ve come to love. When I’m filled with adrenalin by the uncertainty of where the road will take me next. When the soles of my feet hurt from days of traveling. When I feel my feet itch from being in the same place too long. On days good and bad, warm and cold, happy and sad. I feel a quiet longing for home.
9 years ago, I left Dehradun, my home of 17 years, in search of freedom. I didn’t know it then, but that was as close as I might ever get to the illusive feeling of being home.
I lived in Singapore for six years, all the while harboring an irrational love for the idea of India. I moved to Delhi for two years, but could never keep myself from dreaming of the road. The time spans keep getting shorter, the longings more erratic.
The road is my home now, has been for five months. Now that my soul feels restless again, where am I to go?
I don’t long for the homes I’ve left behind. Nor for the temporary ones I find along the way.
Maybe, I long just for the idea of home. One that never was, and may never be.
And I might not be the only one.