For long I have been a person who would never give away security for freedom. I would fit my needs to my wants. I hate running to eventually stand still. It wasn’t where my joy was. I was and perhaps still am the obsessive, maniacal, and a control freak, driven to life by burdens, responsibilities and obligations.
Often at the end of our conversations that started and ended with the idea of home, I was tempted to say,“ I understand, I know how you feel”, but I knew my words felt flat even to me. I had no clue how he felt. Or what homelessness could feel like. As a family we had shifted so many houses on account of my fathers job as an Army officer yet my idea of home was intact. In every government accommodation, in every city that his posting took us to, my mother set up a home in a jiffy. Wooden boxes painted with my fathers name, unit and IC No became sofas and places to sit. A few utensils plucked out from a wooden trunk became a kitchen and we always managed to sleep sound, on a floor or on uncomfortable beds. Home is something else, I have only begun to realise. It certainly isn’t made of brick and mortar.