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Home Sweet Home



So many questions left unanswered. What is Italy’s drainage system like? And how come they hardly have any street dogs?
It was pouring outside. India decided to welcome me with the thing I liked most about it, the thing that was void in most other countries – monsoons. The fresh smell of wet mud and moist humid breeze; a dark gray cloudy sky and droplets of rain on my face, nothing could beat it.

I smiled at the airhostess as she said ‘thank-you’. It would be nice to receive a smile from a perfect stranger, a genuine one. I always thought air hostesses had one of the most boring dull lives one could ever have. I was home, I had lots of plans, and one focus. I knew where I had to reach.

I stuck my head outside the window as we got into my car. My old dusty car seemed a hundred times better than that sick grimy vomit inducing Fiat Panda that we rented in Italy. Old cars smelled (ANY DAY) better than new ones. The wind almost pushed me back into the car, and I could almost stick my tongue out like a dog. It was awesome. Nothing feels better than home when you’ve been away for very long. Thoughts cluttered my head of the millions of choices I had when I’d get home. Delicious home food, meeting relatives, meeting friends, photography, gesture drawing at the marketplace, hitting the beach, eating bhel, but more than anything at that moment my body was crying for rest. So I decided to hit the bed before anything else, allowing myself to forget how filthy I was.
*Sigh* I have a good life.
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