I haven’t been able to fall asleep yet. I can feel sanity slip from my fingers. At lunch tomorrow, people will get big 3-compartment-lunch-boxes. They will have salads. Sweets. And snack. Fruits washed. Like someone must really love them. In those moments I will try with all my might to not hurl my oily brinjals at them. And I will think of home.

When I go home, the home makes shrikhand on demand. It knows to make kaadhi without asking. It insists you eat more ghee. But sometimes it asks you to eat fewer mangoes. The home does not have dust on the window sills. It has cold water. At home, food lies in drawers and shelves, fridges, not shops. Food is served with a side of love. The home cares enough to worry about your water intake being low. Home scolds when you go out in the sun. The home cares more about your health than you do. Home irons clothes. It soaks the whites separately. Home washes bras.

Home magically fixes chains, hunger, and heartbreaks. It folds clothes. Cleans bathrooms. Has an extra toothbrush. Home has a better sense of humor. It has puppies who steal your toys, barking songs. Babies blabbering non-words. Home is the extended body organ, humans made in the name of culture, habitus, to protect from sun, rain, and wind. “It must be very hot in Vidarbha?” I wouldn’t know, home drives me around in a car. At home, bottles fill on their own and sit themselves in the fridge. Home knows to say I love you often. Home makes the bed for you and calls you beta. At home, pillows are softer.

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