Analogikal

The title should be a dead giveaway. I have nothing to compare it against. Countless versions of what it means, what it is and what it can be, have been written. I might have written a few renditions of the same. Some original, some inspired and some borrowed from ones with better words and seemingly better life experiences. Yet, here we are again.

“Doesnt it get boring? Don’t you have to restart every time? People not knowing the context of what you are saying? A lack of sense of belonging”

She asked me, seated across the table, in a dimly lit Italian restaurant. I had been engrossed in being in the moment as first dates are always special. They come with countless possibilities and limitless potential attached to them. I didn’t give this question much thought. I was giving her a lot of thought and all of my attention. I didn’t have any reason to think about the question. My ecosystem and constant state of motion never gave me an opportunity to. The date went well but I knew there might not be another one. But I’d much rather soak in the dopamine pool she put me in than worry about the sadness that comes two days from here. I took the metro ‘home’ to my friends in Alexandra. Frank Ocean’s White Ferrari, Khruangbin’s Texas Sun and Michael Kiwanuka’s Cold Little Heart guiding my way. While I experience melancholy thanks to the songs that took me there, none of the emotions tied back to the sense of missing home or the need for setting context.

I am seated at a ramen shop in downtown Singapore. Reading Project Hail Mary, it strikes me. I am home. I am waiting for my friend and his girl. When I am out having the dry ramen and talking watches, crypto currency and online dating trends, I am home. Two days ago when we were tired from a football game and mildly drunk from the beers, we made the plan to swap watches. Home is the watch I am wearing right now. Home is also the place in Alexandra where my former room mate and his wife welcome me with warm coffee and warmer hugs and their three year old who gives me the only validation I seek. Home was the football field last week where I played with 9 strangers and fit in perfectly. Home was the trail on which strangers wished me morning and told me to have a good day.

Home is the two people who make the city I keep my stuff in, Bangalore, worth returning to intermittently. Home is in finding the next best coffee and FaceTime conversations with them out of nowhere. Home, at times, lies at the top, middle and bottom of a bottle of gin. Home lies in the cacophonous laughter of my forever people when I crack the terrible puns. Home is also in the disapproval of my rebellious adopted sibling. Home is in being the third wheel on their endless honeymoon. Home is also the apartment in Whitefiled, where my ‘daughter’ and my good friend live. A place where I have an endless supply of bone crushing hugs and pan asian food.

Home is in Kochi where my niece makes me feel like the only person that matters when she brushes her teeth with me in the morning. Home is on the couch playing Fifa with my brother. Home is in the backseat of an Audi A4 with the greatest couple I know. Children I have adopted, who have adopted me. Reckless as he is, loving as she is, they make me feel at home. Home is in the train that takes me to Calicut. Home is also the mango tree and the two old people that sit beneath it every day. Ferocious lions in their prime, softened and brushed smooth by the endless caress by the river of life. Home is in that 2 ft by 6ft spot in the cemetery. Miss you gran.

Home is in Hague with my partner and his family. The two children I have adopted as my godchildren and the man who has fathered them. Home is in our ‘I miss you’ messages. Home is in the pointless conversations, early morning cycle rides, sunbathing on my terrace and reassurance in his voice. Home is in salvation from corporate servitude which I might still have been subjected to had it not been for him. Home is in Copenhagen where my boy lives. In the brief pauses between our chats on music, relationships and the infinite possibility of human beings. Home is a a 200 year old cottage in Dharamsala where my ‘best friend’ and his family live. Where his wife would correct me that she is also my best friend. Where I am sure his daughter would also have something to say about it. They have been my friends from the time I thought I needed a ‘best friend’ to the time I realised I have so many. Their home has been mine in Calicut, Nasik, Bathinda and Dharamsala.

Home is in an apartment I haven’t seen in London. Where lives the warmest soul I have known. The one that I have known the longest. Home is an apartment in Frankfurt and the black cat with the crooked legs that inhabits it. Home is a person in Melbourne. The one who helped me rediscover the light and joy in walking and the beauty and grace in being fragile. Home is also an apartment in Berlin where I can be a version I can’t be anywhere else. Home is the city itself where I found the version of me I am today. Ever grateful.

Home is a couch in Dubai. Where I can be cooped up in the company of the girl I met on a dating app and the boy I kissed on their wedding night. Home is in the moments between doing things with them. Home is them. Home is also the one bedroom in Seattle where lives the Monica and Chandler to my Joey. Without whom I might not have survived large parts of life the way I did. Without whom the city I call home, feels a little less like home. Home also lies in the quiet confidence that they are all on a group on my phone.

To her question, I don’t feel the need to set context with the people I call home. The context is I’d literally give an arm and a leg for them and I know I am loved. Home is where my thoughts live and thanks to all of them, my thoughts have a safe home in my head. As far as homes go, I have a great one. You are welcome to stop by.

Till next time.