Home, wherever that is.

Home. I’m not sure I know where that is.

Everybody seems to have this one place that comes to their mind when they think of home. Home is a place where they’re comfortable and happy and surrounded by people who love them unconditionally. It’s a place where you can be yourself and nobody would ever judge you for it. It’s a place where the food that your mum or dad has cooked gives you this strange feeling of homeliness and comfort you can’t find elsewhere. The food brings back memories of its own and takes you back to your younger days. 

I’ve had many homes throughout my life – homes in different cities, different houses in the same city. Is home really a place? In each of the places I’ve lived in, I’ve felt at home in some way or the other. I don’t think home is a place. Home is when you’re with people you care about and people who care about you. Home is happiness. Home is where you have happy memories along with the sad ones. But they’re memories nonetheless, aren’t they? Over the last year, I’ve been away from home. It takes you out of your comfort zone and brings out different shades of you. You realise the added responsibility that comes with staying away from home, you realise how much you start missing your mum’s food; you start missing countless things that you never thought you would ever miss. Slowly, I grew to like the new home I had though. I’ve concluded that home isn’t a place; it’s people - it’s family and it’s your friends.  

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Today, as I sat absorbed in the work I was doing on my laptop, a friend I’ve only known two weeks came up to me and asked me to write him something. I assumed he wanted help with something he had to write for his work, so I asked him what he wanted me to write for him. He said that anything would do, that he just wanted me to write something for him. I think that’s the most pleasantly surprised I’ve been in a while. I asked him to be a little more specific because I was still quite confused. He replied saying that I could write about my home, my friends, anything that makes me happy. I don’t think I can express how happy this made me. Nobody, nobody has ever asked me to write something for them. It’s the nicest feeling. I wrote this for him. He’s been away from home for a long, long time and I’m sure he misses home more than anything. He made my morning, he did.