Last time I went to my hometown,

I sat in the fields and stretched my legs,

Folded up my sleeves and let the sunlight mark its presence on my skin,

And that reminded me of Sia and how she always said,

“My California’s sunshine make the red bricks burn down houses that aren’t homes”

At that very moment,

I felt this tightening around my throat,

As if something or someone,

Was clasping pieces of unversed areas.

Was making me gulp in regions of sunflower and mustard grains.

Was telling me to breathe,

Breathe in the town that; before three minutes,

Was my home. My friends always laughed hard,

When I told them that Ibrahim’s laughter sounded like church bells and that,

That made me feel one colony closer to home.

Baba used to gather all the news

And summarize it for me during dinner,

So when I say that I know stories of people and places,

Please believe me.

Do so because I have forgotten the postal codes of all my temporary addresses,

Do so because I have started misspelling the landmark of my last residence,

Do so because I have lost all my stories while trying to put together;

Stories of other people and places.

Ma used to teach me Bangla when I was in sixth grade,

And all I did was nibble and chew pencils,

Look for clocks.

But, somehow, I learnt.

So when I say I wrote my first letter to Ma from the hostel in Bangla; last month,

Please believe me.

Believe me because

Sooner or later you are going to conclude that,

“It’s not where you come from, it’s where you belong”

Take your time and realize this.

Because as soon as you do,

As soon as you know where you belong,

You will no longer be a nomad.

You will have a heart that knows where the safe haven is.

And, that, let me tell you, is your home.

By:

Arunima Saha