Many Homes

The idea of home has never been singular, what with quick forming attachments and leaving bits of my heart scattered around the world. One must be grateful for rich experiences, learnings, memories and the possibilities of return. Home has been gorgeous apartments, hotel rooms, hostel beds, quiet corner in parks, and very often now, a bit of web space. Home is on my camera, scribbled in my notebook, on my phone, and, of course, in my mind.

Over the last few days, I’ve been in the process of saying goodbye. Goodbye to friends, to cities, museums, shops, restaurants, and to the many places I think of as home. Between tears and laughing spells, I feel comforted knowing there are many homes.

To say goodbye isn’t as bad when you know you can always come back, and there will be a warm bed, a hot shower, a drink, and most importantly, familiar friendly faces to welcome you and make you feel at home.


Goodbye and All That

We’ve known each other for less than a year, yet what a year it has been. From late night fun to frustrated afternoons of essay writing, we’ve come a long way.  Pizzas, favourite walks,  birthday parties, preferred bars and specific snacks too! The city is dotted with our stories now, and soon only a few of us will stay back. Will we see each other again? Write, call, tag on instagram?

It’s nice to live in a world that is so connected, but I’m going to miss living across from friends, impromptu nightcaps, walking to the libs, or school, doing a shop, or just, you know, hanging out.

My new friends made me a happier, better person, and strangely younger person. I came slightly jaded, terribly cynical, and I return seven kilos heavier, but infinitely lighter in spirit. I’m going to miss you all.

Winding up.

My prayer flags have been pulled off the window. The soft board is now blank. I’ve taken down my fairy lights. The shelves are being emptied, and I am, well, really glum.

A year flew by, but I feel like I just got here.

My heart is breaking, and there isn’t a thing to do. Only goodbyes, weighing of stuff, packing. There are things to be given away– things that have been loved. My things, that won’t be mine anymore.


When she said the acknowledgements were the nicest part of my dissertation, my heart sank but I know it was true. The cloak of academic restraint had dropped, as had any pretence of being critical. It was me, my voice, my words, saying thanks to only a fraction of people who’d helped me along the way to write a dissertation. It suddenly feels like a small work, not the massive project it felt like till yesterday. Friends are onto bigger things, better projects, fun ideas and such.

But my mind has strayed back to the acknowledgements: a part I never skip. Acknowledgements are personal. They’re genuine, they reveal something about the writer that the whole book will now. Acknowledgements are personal.

Who are you? What do you value? Who helped you along? Did you drink tea as you wrote? Did you need to hide? Did you need your hand to be held? Did you travel?

Acknowledgements will tell me if I like you, as a person, as a human. They’re the nicest parts of most books.


Some mistakes are worth repeating because that’s how (and who) we are:




Winding up

In a constant state of  writing frenzy, it occurs to me that my time (in Edinburgh) is running out.

I’ll soon have to say goodbye to my cobbled-stoned streets, hidden parks, quirky buildings, and favourite baristas.

No more cooking in tiny kitchens, meals with far too much Red Leicester,

In a few days, the city won’t belong to me, and my little aashiyana will have a new occupant.

I won’t have my table at Levels, nor will the guys at 9a remember me. Perhaps they will move too.

There won’t be hours at the library, nor tedious weekly shops.

There won’t be impulse purchase of books I can’t afford to carry back home

Nor plans of barbecues under the stars.

The castle won’t impose on my skyline,

There won’t be a short walk to work / friends / art.

But I’ll leave a piece of my heart here

And haunt old buildings, terraces, and cold, rainy paths

Because no matter where I go, I’ll always have Edinburgh.

Happy Birthday, Aie,

She’s a perfectionist, my mom

Food has to be just right,

The house spotless,

But she cares more about things in your head.

Feelings, consideration, pragmatic decisions

A bunch of laughs, late night poetry,  snarky inside jokes

Foreign soaps, dubbed, ridiculous, but still followed.

Conversations that delight, frustrate, and make you think

Songs that she’ll know I need.

So many things that are special but don’t fit into a blog post

But here’s to a party I missed, to sizzles, and chats, to love that always grows.

Happy birthday, Aie! 🙂