Notes from Home - By Tenuli Perera

Written By: Tenuli Perera

Category: Short Stories

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the evocative short story "Notes from Home," Tenuli Perera explores the intricate feelings of homesickness and the journey towards self-discovery. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this narrative invites readers into the world of a university student navigating life away from home. With a poignant reflection on family connections and the warmth of familiarity, Perera crafts a tale that resonates with anyone who has ever felt the pull of home.

About the Work

"Notes from Home" carries a wistful tone, as Tenuli Perera delves into the experience of feeling adrift in a new environment. The story is rich with imagery and emotion, capturing the protagonist's connection to her mother's handwriting as a symbolic anchor to her past life. Through subtle details and tender moments, Perera paints a vivid picture of the struggle between maintaining familial ties and embracing newfound independence.

Notes from Home

Original Submission by Tenuli Perera

Notes from Home

By Tenuli Perera

The handwriting was unmistakably familiar, yet impossible. It slanted gently to the left. The tails of the g’s curled beneath the word next to it, and every capital "P" stood taller than the rest of the letters, as though it refused to bend.

I knew that handwriting. I had watched Amma write shopping lists on the backs of electricity bills, birthday cards to distant relatives and little reminders stuck to our refrigerator with fading magnets.

Except Amma had never been to Peradeniya.

The note lay beneath the sugar jar on the dining table: "Please switch off the kitchen light before sleeping"

I picked it up again, turning it over as though another explanation might be written on the back. Nothing. Just those seven words, written in my mother's unmistakable handwriting.

"You found one?"

I looked up. Aunty Kusum stood at the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on the end of her faded cotton saree.

"I...who wrote this?"

She glanced at the note. "Oh. One of the girls."

I laughed awkwardly. "No, I mean...this looks exactly like my mother's handwriting."

She smiled politely, the way adults do when they think you are imagining things. "You'd be surprised how similar people write."

But I wasn't convinced.

The boarding house was older than the university itself, or so Aunty Kusum liked to claim. Its wooden floors complained with every step. Rain found tiny cracks in the roof each monsoon, dripping into buckets that had permanent places in the hallway. The garden was crowded with pepper vines, mango trees and old clay pots where orchids bloomed without anyone paying much attention to them.

Five girls rented rooms upstairs. Only two of us stayed during the mid-semester break. The house had become unusually quiet. Sometimes the silence felt comforting. Sometimes it made every small sound seem louder than it should have been.

Over the next week, I found more notes.

Beside the rice container: "Buy ginger"

Another tucked between recipe books: "Less garlic, too spicy"

Another pinned beside the washing machine: " PLEASE DON’T mix white and colours"

Every one of them carried the same careful loops. The same tall “P”. The same gentle slant. Each time I looked at them, I saw Amma standing in our kitchen in Matara, pushing loose hair behind her ear while scribbling reminders before rushing off to work.

I stopped mentioning it. It sounded ridiculous even to me.

Our phone calls had become shorter since I left home:

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"How are lectures?"

"Fine."

"Enough money?"

"Yes."

Then silence. Neither of us knew what to say after that. The conversation ended before it really started.

I often thought of telling her I missed home. Instead, I asked whether the dog was still chasing squirrels in the garden. It somehow felt easier.

One Friday evening rain arrived without warning. The electricity disappeared with a soft click. The house sank into darkness.

Aunty Kusum lit a kerosene lamp and placed it on the dining table between us. Its light softened the room, making familiar things look older. She cut beans for dinner while I watched her for a while.

Then I spoke;

"Aunty..."

"Hmm?"

"The girl who wrote the notes..."

She didn't answer immediately. The silence in the darkness was stifling. She continued slicing beans into neat little pieces.

"Her name was Tharushi."

"What happened to her?"

A faint smile crossed her face. "Nothing happened."

She looked out towards the rain. "She graduated."

I waited.

"She came from Monaragala," Aunty Kusum continued.

"First time leaving home. First week she cried every night. Thought nobody could hear."

"She wouldn't eat properly. Wouldn't unpack her clothes. Every weekend she counted how many days left until she could go home."

The rain beat harder against the roof.

"Then I noticed something. I asked her why all her notes looked the same."

"What did she say?", I asked.

"She said she spent an entire holiday copying her mother's handwriting. She said if the reminders looked as though her Amma had written them..."

Her voice grew quieter.

"...then this house didn't feel so lonely."

Neither of us spoke. The kerosene lamp flickered between us.

That night, I couldn't sleep. Rainwater trickled steadily through the gutter outside my window.

For months I had convinced myself I was adjusting well. I attended lectures. Submitted assignments. Missed the bus. Learnt the bus routes. Found the cheapest kottu shop near the campus gate. I thought that was what growing up meant.

Yet I suddenly realised I had been avoiding the one feeling that refused to disappear. Sitting quietly beside everything else I did. Homesickness.

That evening I called Amma before she called me. She answered on the second ring.

"What happened?"

I smiled. "Nothing happened."

"Then why are you calling so early?"

"I just..."

The words disappeared. Amma waited.

"I think I forgot what your handwriting looked like."

For a second there was complete silence.

Then she laughed. "Ane, you've become strange after going to university."

"Maybe."

"I'll write you a proper recipe book before you come back next month. You keep asking how much salt to put."

"I'd like that."

Another pause. This one felt different. Comfortable.

Before hanging up she asked quietly, "You're doing alright, aren't you?"

I looked around my small room. The rain had finally stopped. Beyond the window, mist settled gently over the hills surrounding the university.

The boarding house wasn't home. But it wasn't a strange place now either. Not completely.

"I'm getting there," I said with hope. With hope that, one day, an unfamiliar place might begin to feel like home without anyone needing to rewrite the words.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a celebration of literary excellence, bringing together writers from around the world to share their unique voices and stories. This prestigious platform offers participants a chance to explore diverse themes and styles, fostering a vibrant community of creativity and storytelling.

We extend our heartfelt appreciation to Tenuli Perera for sharing "Notes from Home" with us. This touching short story, part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, beautifully captures the nuances of homesickness and the journey towards finding one's place. Thank you, Tenuli, for offering readers a glimpse into this heartfelt narrative.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.