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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() Then it would my laughter merging with my best friend's, causing a dent in space, a permanent mark saying "we were here, and this is how" It would be Aal's garam varan bhaat, but honestly, everything her
hands make- my taste buds do not know home as anything else Every time I snuggle with her, my forehead in the nape of her neck Every time Baba laughs at something I say, every time he brings me a glass of water, every time he says "thank you" and I smile without restraint All the ones between my brother and I, for I do not know home without a brother, a home without us bickering, without his playful yet really really annoying flick on my cheek, without his wisdom and without his "what do you think of this?", reminding me that I can be trusted. I do not know a home without laughter, and I do not know laughter without him; all of mine is all of his. Home is 1 am, when he picks up my calls across oceans and time zones and time is suspended; if conversations can become homes as well, ours have settled down in all the quiet moments that pass between him and I, in all the moments we spend discussing politics, love, family, trauma, comedy, and astronomy. All of the 2 days at Mumbai, with my best friends- us bending the rules of time ourselves, smiling and holding hands and learning each other's love language If I have learned to build homes outside of the ones I was born in, it is with them. In the moments that I turn my insides out, in the moments when I am looking at ceiling fans and main-roads, when I am barely here, barely myself, but they're here, they're holding my hands and my back and my face It is the moments when I'm wailing and I do not know when it is going to end, but their affirmation and solidarity is a tight hug, a soft place to land. For home, for me, can never be without vulnerability. For if I know anything about vulnerability, it is because of my best friends. It is because all the moments where I have been quiet, loud, hurting, scared, I have known love and I have known patience only through them. It is the brief seconds that a stranger and I share, a conversation that lasts no more than 500 seconds, a conversation that I fold inside my fists and unwrap inside the bag on my back, carrying it with me because this, this is what I know home to be- familiarity in strangeness If home is a memory in time, it is when through the screen, my best friend in Delhi makes me smile. If home is a memory, it is all the times someone has known my love language. Someone has shown me and given me theirs. When they've opened the door and looked at the mess around and made a home of it nevertheless. If home is a memory in time, mine is a million storeys high. Some people have stepped out and never come back again. But everyone has kept it safe. It is full, it is bright, and love is all we know there. Comments are closed.
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November 2023
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