Home. One syllable, countless emotions. No matter how far we go, however exotic be the places we Visit, there is no place quite like home. But when you’ve been living a nomadic life, what qualifies as being called home? Is it where you were born or grew up or attended high school? Or the city you had your first real job or where you bought your first house? Sometimes, as in my case, it may be none of these. 

To me, home is associated with people, my loved ones, and my home is wherever they are. And as unusual as it may sound, that may mean having multiple homes, even in different parts of the world. When I visit one of these homes, I leave behind a part of me in the home I have some place else. It is a feeling of being torn apart – being close to one but miles away from the other(s). It is manifested as an internal conflict that borders on extremes – joy and sorrow; reunion and separation; getting closer and drifting apart – all experienced in the same moment. And I have always felt this way, whether traveling to visit family in India as a student or a new place as a working professional. 

Every city I’ve stayed, each close relationship I’ve formed, has resulted in me building a house – some weak and unstable; the others strong and able to weather the test of times. Houses that depreciated until there was no more value in their upkeep any longer. Houses that may have needed repairs from time to time, but certainly had a strong foundation. And then there were these unique type of creations – houses that evolved into homes – of warmth, peaceful fulfillment, togetherness and selfless love. 

As I sit at the terminal waiting to board my flight, and scribbling this, a familiar and overwhelming emotion engulfs me – that of my heart being tugged at in opposite directions. Part of me wants to make a run for the exit sign and make my way back to my home while the rest of me can’t wait to hug the home I have been away from, for a year. And I wonder if most of my fellow travelers are going through similar sentiments as I pen down my own thoughts. 

The irony of life is that we are all indeed just vagabonds on a constant journey; making our way through life in search for that place, that job, that house, that hobby, that relationship that would make us feel at home. Only a few of us eventually find what/who we have been seeking but all of us who take this journey make discoveries – about others and most importantly about ourselves. I am lucky to have more than one homes – my fountains of inspiration, strength, support and love. And though I may never be able to get over that internal strife I experience each time I travel from one to the other, I shall always carry each of them in my heart wherever I go.