Casual enquiries on “Where am I From?” push me in a corner where I can hardly think of a reply. It makes me wonder about the idea of home itself— is it an enquiry regarding the place I belong? Is that place home for me? How deep is this relationship between the physical location or what we call home? Maybe the idea of home is merely an emotional construct, devoid of the place. Or is it somewhere you feel literally at home, where you can be yourself?
It springs up a Pandora’s Box of lost memories, my associations with the place, the little things around it, the spaces, the seeds I planted which have become a full grown tree now, the place called home. Those inanimate beings that seem to stay there in peace and refuse to move around like most of us, running everywhere, looking for meaning to our existence. Perhaps they exist independently as things in the world irrespective of our perception of them but are intimately linked to our consciousness.
My journey to a place called home was perhaps an attempt to relive my past, or a search to understand the notion of home or maybe a kind of closure.