I have a theory, that all of us are a concoction of the place(es) we call home, and some we do not.

Sometime a month back, I blogged a post titled a place I do not call home, which was a rant about Kerala.

But two days ago, as I stood outside a mall with an @HOME store in front of me and a live rock show booming in the moist post rain air, I couldn’t help but smile, at the pricking mock of irony of it all.

I’ve considered Bangalore to be home from a long while now although I was entirely raised in Kuwait, I have two homes, I would say to myself.

And I saw how both the places were ingrained into my very soul, into my pulse, into my rhythm, I was from them, I was of them.

Kerala somehow never fit into the picture. I knew my family is from here and so I am as well, but how exactly did the place fit into me? How did I fit into it?

As I looked up and thumped my head to Knock, Knock, Knocking on Heaven’s door and glared at the @HOME sign (ironically the same store outside the mall two minutes from my place in Bangalore), I said, OK, I surrender.

I never get the feeling of home here because it has always been more of a vacation spot, but as much as I deny it, in me there is a little bIt of Kerala, and I may not call it home, but there is a bit of home here, sore as I may choose to remain about the realization.


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