Going Home Again

Home is not the place I sleep
it is the place that wakes me to my senses
Even before I land, the street lamps do an arati
in the dark cloudless skies of my Madras.
I will be within the first few to clear customs
and get out of the airport to give my mom the most non-customary hug.
We shed a few tears of happiness as my dad and I have a respectfully affectionate exchange of looks.
Then, we get to the car and I’ll say how hungry I am to eat idlis.
My mom says ‘you used to hate them during school-days,
so I’ve made phulkas and matar paneer for you.
But not to worry, I have the batter for Idli too.’
This at 3am when the whole world is sleeping.
Then I talk all the way to 7.00am,
even as my mom draws Kolam
boils the milk and makes filter coffee decoction
and my dad gets his Hindu newspaper.
I just talk and talk.
Meanwhile the milkman and the paperman have updated our housing community of my arrival and people have started coming to our house to greet me.
My dear daughter is so quiet and they take her to their house for giving sweets.
They say she is like my husband in her quietness
I still talk and be my own naughty self and tease them all single-handedly,
My mom feeds food in my mouth now that I am not hungry after all the love showered on me.
Then, she asks me to go lock the room and sleep.
I know if I don’t listen to her, I will be in trouble and do as she says.
As I doze off, I can hear phone ringing, my husband making sure I’ve reached home safely.


