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By Dr. Mehul Purohit

If only it was closer, I would have gone there. If only they were here (Not that I care). I get the smell sometimes, Of the old, untouched, vinyl. Reminding me of those moments, The ones, addressing my denial. The ticking of the oven, waiting for milk. Touch of the couch, sarees of silk. Never ending debates, introspection, we tried. In the absence of a watch, our sorrows we cried. If only it was closer. My lunacy, they would bear. If only they were here. An answer to my "Where?”


Epilogue (just to make it comprehensible, not a part of the write up):

I think every once in a while, there come these instances where you are drawn back to your home (or whatever place that made you comfortable in the past). It is like the Proustian moment where a particular, subconsciously known, smell, takes you to your ‘safe place’.

In totality, the write up is about how easy and comforting it is to regress, even in absence of a malady. It’s a recurring theme in many of my other write ups, most of the times looking for an answer, whether is it normal to do so or should it be stopped to move ahead in life?

The last stanza reflects my abruptness in choosing home (or childhood) on being asked ‘where are you headed?’, metaphorically.

By Dr. Mehul Purohit

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