Dear Home

This is my favorite time in all the calendars. Because this is the time I miss you the most….


Dear Home

I hope you’re fine. I’m doing okay here, and I don’t have to wake up before 8, so it’s kind of nice. 

Well, it’s not that nice.

Everybody’s back home and I’m caged in this small six by six room, as still and gloomy as a morgue. I have loads of data pack but nobody to talk to. And I don’t feel like watching porn either. I have pencils and colors, but no motivation to draw. I feel like being there, back in my broken armchair, back on my dusty red swing, back on my blue colored bed smelling of Patanjali detergent powder. But I can’t. And it sucks.

October’s over and the first hints of the oncoming winter have started to appear. The temperature has dropped a bit, so I have to wear shirt at night. The air smells so nice these days, I feel all nostalgic and homesick and alone. It smells like memories; like Diwali; like diyas; like you. The fall is towards its end, and the winter still to arrive. This is my favorite time in all the calendars. Because this is the time I miss you the most. 

I haven’t been there for a long time, but I hope life’s good under that sky. I have fading memories of the streets, the field, the school, the temples and the shops. The grass in the field was all withered up the day I left. Rest was the same. The school was still as horrible as day one; the diyas in temples were flickering before statues as always; the unpaved streets, sheltered by resplendent flowers, were as beautiful as ever. I remember the houses, the doors, the balconies. I remember how people went on the terraces and watched the sparkling, teeming world beneath. 

The tar covered roads, the smell of charcoals, the radiance of streetlights, the hubhub of cafes – everything comes flashing by. The stadium and the abundance of life in there. The kids playing cricket, a bunch of people kicking a football, fitness freaks, army aspirants and fat people jogging at different paces, people doing pullups, young guys chatting and fooling around on the steps. I miss my friends and I miss the feeling of being a part of those nonsense conversations. 

I miss the remote, and the only English channel in the pack, Russia Today, and I miss the books cluttered in those shelves, and the kitchen with cookies and Horlicks and sweets hidden at weird places. I miss the sight of a fresh blue sky, the unadulterated morning light, the cacophony of a place which isn’t a metro or a village. I miss the walls, the photo frames where my family seems so happy, the windchime that breaks into a song with every whiff of breeze. I miss the dove’s nest, the kittens, the trees and the unbloomed roses. Hell, I even miss the green colored water tank that I never thought of as something beautiful. I miss the shimmering night, the magnificent glow of Diwali, and my ferocious mother letting all the crackers because the males in my family are super eco-friendly. 

“You all are wusses. “My mother would frown as she burst ear deafening explosives on the boundary wall. 

Then the sweets that we were not allowed to touch till the battery of guests had a feast. Everybody came dressed up and all. 

My mother always looked the prettiest, though.  

“How do I look? “She’d ask. We would still be in casuals while she’d be all dressed up like queen Victoria, with jewellery and everything. 

“Yes. “I’d say. She’d study my face for some time, and after she was convinced that I wasn’t lying, she’d pretend to shake her collar and say,

“Yeah, I know I’m awesome. “

Then, the friends. And the evening strolls I’d take with them. I miss the streams of blinking lights, the rows of candles and the ocean of diyas. And I miss walking through the lit up streets with my friends, talking about the good old times, cracking familiar stupid jokes, laughing together and wondering if this is the time to pause time. 

The thing about memories is that they hurt most of the times. I wish there was a delete button in this stupid body. I really don’t want to remember stuffs about you, but like all my emotions attached to you, this one, too, is involuntary. I cannot not remember. It just doesn’t happen according to my wish. 

Anyway, 41 days and 1200 miles later, I’m going to be there. Be ready. 🙂



Author: ravish raj

● 17yearoldboy ● capricorn ● artist ● pornaholic ● Historian ● Googlebhakt ● storyteller ● procrastinator ● virgin ● 1600+ in bullet @ ● Bihar se hain 😎 ●

7 thoughts on “Dear Home”

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