Home.

By Drishti Kedia

Early mornings, I know Mama's in the mandir, the agarbatti hanging in the air; god, come down, god, see me, god, take my poetry away, god, come home, I don't feel at home.

Late mornings, I know Papa's taking a shower. I know mama's in the kitchen making his breakfast and I know in exactly 5 minutes, he'll come downstairs and make his tea and ask me what movie I was watching last night. Oh papa, if only you knew.

Sultry afternoons; I know it's a clean kitchen, the only stain on the white island countertop is my coffee's. Mama is sleeping; she has classes in another 45 minutes. She's a teacher; god? Are you there? Why didn't you gift me her patience with people?

Late afternoons; I know Papa skipped his lunch and probably doesn't even know that.I know my grandmother is getting ready to go out to the keertan, I know my brother's out playing gully cricket, I know I'm in a bloodbath of memories while papa waits for me to finish showering so he can take me on a drive to my favorite place in my hometown.

Evenings; I know the house is empty. Everyone has things to do. I’m in my room; but I know the house is empty.

Nights; you will not find more peace anywhere else than in my house at night. I don't. if ever, you see me ruining myself even more deeply, take me home to this picture, to this little place that's not even on the map, please. take me home. I’m begging you, this kitchen is the only violence I want; only love I want, take me home.

Late nights; I know Mama and Papa are coming to my room to hug me goodnight; I know Papa's going to sit on the bed and ask me how my day was and I know mama's going to pick my used coffee cup from my table and remind me that I’m the most useless teenager in the world and then we're all going to laugh. Home.

By Drishti Kedia