For a traveller, a home is a place of refuge. It’s the closest you’d feel comfortable with what’s around you. A cloth tent in a silent desert, a thatched house in a secluded village, a bunk bed in a hostel, or a swanky room in a 5 star hotel — can all give you a sense of coming home. And when you hit the pillow (if you’re lucky to have one), and the tiredness of the day escapes your body; that’s when you know, you can let it all go.
These days, the concept of home has blurred for me. Whenever I think of home, I don’t think of the city that I grew up in, or my hometown that I’d visit in summers. Strangely, what I truly miss about home — are the mountains of the north. Basil finds it hard to believe. After all, I was born in the plains, in a coastal village town, and have lived in a city along the coast — for most of my life. Strangely, I’ve always found choppy waters to be the perfect remedy to calm the turmoil within.
I would’t want to pit the sea against the mountains; but I think if I’ve ever felt truly home, at any place, it would have to be under the shadow of the cascading peaks of the mountains. The silence isn’t terrifying. The seclusion is rewarding. The isolation — a cure for loneliness. And the opportunity to truly connect with your inner self — unparalleled. Nothing really matters under the canopy of white clouds, pale backdrop of stony rock formations, and dotted animal life in the far distance. Life in total dependance of the elements, makes you learn, to appreciate life by itself. And although, in the true sense, I will never be a local (in ethnicity or cultural lineage) of these extreme landscapes; it’s where I think I left my heart behind, and perhaps, the only place I truly belong.
Home is, I suppose just a child’s idea. A house at night, and a lamp in the house. A place to feel safe.
V. S. Naipaul
If you go anywhere, even paradise, you will miss your home.