— Written by Sivani
Curled up on a hostel bed,
Feverish, exhausted and overwhelmed,
Staring at the phone with endless, but meaningless reels.
Something aches deeply.
The chair is piling up with dirty laundry and the desk with assignments. The quizzes loom closer. Decisions, choosing between cozying up with blankets or finishing assignments, hurts like knives twisting my heart.
There’s no one to say “ You sleep, I’ve got this”.
The same old rock-hard Idli in the mess sharpens this ache, instead of easing it. Memories of my mom’s kitchen seem to waft fresh, hot dosas and chapatis, although miles away from my reach.
Home was a silver platter: no troubling thoughts or decisions, dirty laundry vanishing and reappearing folded and all my favorites appearing on a plate. My old childhood bed; that which has a slight sag, yet never fails to provide a perfect hug. All there was to be done was to belong, be fed, be held and be hugged.
But now, every decision feels heavy. What to wear? What to eat? What to study? What to say?
It’s ironic because if I rewind a few years of memories at the same cherished home, it’s tinted in a completely different colour. Doors banged shut in the pursuit of freedom, tolerating those suffocating dinners with parents, who lectured on what’s best for my future. The only difference is: now I long for such a home.
From being a battle to unfurl my clipped wings from a scorning cage that I called home, it became a comfort that soothes the weight of those unclipped wings. A nostalgia for the surrender that I once dreaded, and the silver platter where life was served warm.
Yet in this ache we grow, the ghost of our home lingering as a reminder of what we traded for those wings.
Edited by Lakshmi Yazhini | Design by Surabhi Chhikara
Article 19 