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                              🏡 It's been years since I wrote here. Life has changed, perspectives have shifted. But the need to reflect and write remains the same.....

As I watch my life drift apart, moving more toward reality than the dreams I once had—dreams shaped by movies, books, meeting people, and random conversations with strangers—I realise home is no longer the cozy place I imagined. No longer a place with great food, a bunch of books, the perfect view, and a safe space to return to every day.

At least that’s what I used to think it was—different versions of it, mostly inspired by cartoons, animations, novels, and movies. Like the adaptation of Heidi, where she lived on top of the Alps with amazing views and no worries in life. Or the simple cottages from Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s films, with big yards full of flowers. Or those Mani Ratnam homes where you could almost smell the morning coffee and hear Suprabhatam in the background while your Appa read The Hindu.

That’s what I thought a home was.

Later, I learnt there’s a difference between a house and a home. I always assumed that owning a house would automatically make it feel like home. But my definition of “home” has changed a lot through different phases of life.

As a teenager, home meant my parents waiting for me—my mom ready with food, bedtime stories, and just being there. No matter how long I played outside or what kind of day I had, as long as I came back to her at the end of the day, I was okay. Back then, home meant that even if someone hurt you at school, or you had a fight with a friend, or you scored poorly in exams—everything felt bearable with the thought, I just need to get back home. It’ll be okay.

But when I started college and my dad’s health issues began, it changed. Seeing him go in and out of ICUs, suffering in pain—it made me dread going home.  Not because I didn’t care, but because I knew I couldn’t do much to help home ,  I wasn’t ready to deal with that helpless feeling, the one where you can’t do anything to take away someone’s pain.  After a point, I rushed home only because it wasn’t safe to be out alone at night.

Still, I longed for the old version of home—where both my parents were healthy and happy. A safe space where I could escape the world’s harsh realities—where everything seemed to be about beauty, brains, money, influence, and connections.

Having always lived in rented houses, there was always the fear of being asked to vacate. So I kept telling myself—one day, I’ll buy a house and gift it to my parents. That would solve everything. That would bring peace. Yes, I was that naive. I thought having my own house meant freedom—the freedom to decorate, to invite people over, to keep my parents with me forever.

I didn’t think about the EMIs, the responsibilities, the stress. I thought having a house meant problems would disappear.

It all changed when I booked a 2BHK in the US for an official stay, instead of a hotel. That flat had everything. I’d cross the street, buy groceries, cook for one, go to work, come back on time, do laundry. And on days when I was too tired, I’d crash on the sofa, watching old cartoons or TV shows on local cable. It had the peace and quiet I had always craved.

That’s when it hit me—no matter what I do, where I live, or what I own, if I’m not at peace with myself, even the most beautiful house won’t feel like home. Imagine building a dream home and still dreading returning to it because of the life inside it. Worrying about EMIs. Living with unresolved problems.

Home means different things to different people:

For a baby, it’s the loving nest they crawl back into.
For kids, it’s where they’re pampered and protected.
For students, it’s the place they run to after school—where mom has their favourite meal ready, and dad’s waiting to hear about the day.
For teens, it’s a room to lie in all day, listening to music, doing nails, reading comics, fixing random stuff, or trying new things in the kitchen.
For someone living away from family, it’s the place you go back to for snacks, clean laundry, and endless pampering.

For working adults home means a place where your loved ones take care of chores in the house when you come back home from work tired and getting ready for the next set of meetings to attend to

For soldiers, it’s the place you count the days to return to.
For daughters, it’s the warm haven during short visits from your in-laws’ place.
For parents and grandparents, it’s the space where love is shared with kids, stories are told during power cuts, fruits are picked from trees, and medical and emotional care is never questioned.
For many, it’s just the hope of a peaceful place to rest—eventually, in every sense of the word.

For me?

Home is where I feel at peace.
Where I can be myself.
Where I don’t dread coming back.

Where my Best Friends and their kids are at a stone’s throw ..

Where my evenings are filled with peace and quiet , weekends are filled with fun time with my best friend …
Where I can live, eat, pray, laugh, cry, celebrate, and just be—with no questions asked.

     Home ....and my search continues .............