Home is many things.
But mostly it is people. And as my therapist reminds me, there used to be a gaping hole in my life of a family, which led to the making of many family-like relationships and throwing them in that hole. There was an ex’s mother, whose kitchen counter was my favorite place to sit, his father an amazing drinking partner, and a friend who bought me colors, brushes, and easels and played calming songs for me while I tried to paint with all my nani’s criticism playing in my head, another borrowed mother who remembers to buy my favorite mithai from Matunga whenever I go to Bombay, one that scolded and on occasions beat me up like I imagined an elder brother would.
Until I came back home to fulfill my ‘a place for everything and everything in its place’ and built a family from these semi-functioning humans I love. Now I remember these relationships and times by tokens. A pair of pants bought for me by my partner when I was the lowest in my mental health journey. “you deserve this” he had said. It helps me feel nice when pimples pop on my face every month.
A pair of earrings P bought me from her work visit to Delhi. She has the hardest time expressing love, so I know she loves me through books she sends me, pieces of jewelry she passes on, or post-its she left on my desk.
A pen my then boss, now colleague gave me after our first project together, my first as a consultant. I got dizzy with happiness. I carried it everywhere and wrote more since then. I lost it when home was being redone.
A bag organizer and speaker, the bringers of organizational orgasms, and trash music that D bought me because “let me know when you feel guilty buying something” because he got me.
