After a terribly boring long lull, I am back to the exciting squall, my safe place. Things are moving, in all directions, and I, of course, am completely loving it. It all started with two work trips first for freelance assignments and within a week I was zooming at a spectacular speed to two different parts of the country which soon collided with my much needed temporary Bombay comeback.
With rains, some wine, some crazy ass stories and gossip, some friends, some work, some ideas, some iced teas, some Bandra and some non-stop movement all around, Bombay hasn’t disappointed me. I have been splitting my stay between two friends’ houses. And living out of my red backpack, again. Having my much familiar temporary life.
The other day I was just joking with a friend, saying how for the next few years I will not ask for a retreat or a break or a feeling of being settled down. Oh god no. I can’t handle that. I realised only a moment later that I wasn’t joking. I was dead serious. This is where my home is right now. In my backpack. In the plastic bag where I am currently keeping my laundry. In my handbag. In my friends’ houses. In a newly discovered superb cafe where they have excellent bacon wrapped prawns and pancakes.
Even when I get my “own” house next, wherever I decide to stay (I have stopped thinking about that), that won’t be my home. I won’t put together “life” ever again. I will blatantly fantasize about collecting things and containing them and getting a sense of a contended life, with a glass of wine and gloomy music, but I will never ever want that. I will complain that I don’t have it. But I won’t want it. That fantasy and everything in between is where my home is.