Home is a strange thing. When I was a child, it was four walls with peeling paint, the smell of onions sizzling in oil, and a cricket ball forever stuck on the neighbor’s roof. Now when I visit the walls have been repainted the kitchen smells of packaged masalas and the neighbor sold his house years ago.
I sit in my old room, but the posters are gone, the window feels smaller, and somehow the silence is louder. Everyone tells me, “Welcome home.” But I know better. I know that home is not a place you can step into again it’s a moment, a version of yourself, a laugh in the corridor at 11 p.m. that refuses to be repeated.
You can return to the house, yes. But the home? That’s a one time gift.