If home was a moment in time by Tanvi Kulkarni (22, India)

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"

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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.