It's 7 PM, and I've been home for nearly two hours now. My legs and feet ache as if they've never rested. The dim yellow light from the floor lamp on the side table flickers, hinting that the bulb might give in soon. I should get up to switch it off, but the weariness enveloping my body renders me motionless. Today, exhaustion has seeped into my very being. I've walked miles, but why? I can't quite fathom. Dinner needs to be made, yet both body and soul seem to have mustered all their courage.
You might wonder why the need for all this walking. Have the buses and taxis in this city ceased to operate, forcing me into this ordeal? No, there's no such issue here. Buses and taxis bustle as usual. My predicament stems from within, a childhood quirk perhaps—an incessant need to keep walking, an impulse that forbids me from idling at home during daylight, compelling me to wander tirelessly.
My psychologist once probed into the possible root of my compulsion. She suggested I might be searching for something that keeps me in perpetual motion. We humans are enigmatic creatures—we say what we don't mean and conceal what we do. Initially, I vehemently denied it to her, but here I am confessing it to you today.
I'm searching for a home—scouting for a haven I've not laid eyes on yet, yet I feel it's nearby. If you chance upon it while driving or on a bus, please don't let it pass me by. That's why I prefer scouring on foot, fearing I might miss it otherwise. I observe my surroundings as I walk, vigilant, ensuring I don't overlook it.
My homes have shifted from childhood to adulthood—sometimes a country, sometimes a city, occasionally a house. Consequently, perhaps no place could transform into a true home. I openly acknowledge that fragments of my heart reside in all these places, but where exactly is home? I'm at a loss. Which city is truly mine, where I'd desire to spend my entire life? I haven't the faintest clue.
You might wonder why I walk so much. Have you ever stumbled upon a home while wearing slippers? Encountered a place that feels like home? It's a mutual happening. I've yet to find a permanent abode where I can unpack my red suitcase and arrange my clothes in the closet, but there have been instances when I've felt at home. It might sound absurd if you listen, but it's my truth.
At times, this house is the sunlight filtering through dense foliage, sometimes it's a kind smile from someone. Occasionally, a cool breeze in the summer feels like home, and sometimes, it's glimpsing something in a mother's visage. Sometimes, as I sit on a bench penning this column, it feels like home; other times, it's the tranquility and darkness of the night that seem like the home I seek. Sometimes, a chair with a large floral print under the lamplight at the office feels like home, and sometimes, the voice of Madam Noor Jahan singing Faiz Sahib's verses makes me feel alive, prompting me to simply unpack my suitcase and stay put.
If there's a house, it's this—the homes we've heard of in stories don't assume this form. Perhaps this is the reality of home—the essence of homelessness and belonging lies in a great luxury. Homeless people have the most homes because theirs aren't confined by time and space. Where the heart finds solace, it begins to call home.
You might wonder why this seemingly composed writer is so talkative today. Keep pondering. This is just who I am.
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