Homesick

There have only been a few occasions when I've felt terribly homesick. The first was, without a doubt, when I had just left home. I remember sitting in my eerily quiet hotel room, watching everything get dark at 5 p.m., and wondering why the hell I was in a place where I didn't belong. Home would then sit in my throat like a lump waiting to burst out but unable to do so. It would, instead, subside into silent tears before bed in a very new, and very strange land — and the worst part was, there was no one to share that with because I was completely alone. Within the next few days (and then weeks), that feeling would become infrequent but still sneak up on me on the best of my days.

I've had my ups, too. I went a very long period without feeling homesick at all. I made some nice friends and would socialise frequently. I started travelling. I started cooking and eating better. I don't exaggerate when I say this period lasted for over a year... until I got the chance to go back home for the first time since I left. Although home then had a different definition, leaving it was still hard, and when I came back, I had to press the restart button on myself again. Some wonderful companions helped greatly though and I didn't have to suffer for long.

More recently, however, it's been a couple of days and I've been feeling uncharacteristically homesick. I think when our lives get going and we're elbow-deep into our new schedules, we seldom look back to reminisce about the life we had. I know that I don't count my past blessings too often. But these feelings have crept up on me and I miss my parents terribly. And I wish I was privileged enough to be able to go see them on a whim. I wish time would stop and no one would age.

The grass is only greener in pictures, thanks to photo editing.

I miss Karachi. I miss that loud, haphazard city. I miss the strikes, I miss the power outages (just a little), I miss the heat. I miss that dull afternoon sunlight coming in through drawn curtains. I miss the noise. I miss the sound of my mother cooking in the kitchen while I laze around like a good-for-nothing mass of protoplasm, and I miss her not minding that at all. I miss my mother. I miss sitting in my father's car. I miss having lunch with him. I miss making lunch for him. I miss making those darn gol rotis. I miss being a teenager. I didn't know it was going to get this serious this soon. I miss everything — only sometimes — but I miss it all in its entirety.

P.S.: Above is a picture of one of my father's childhood homes. He says the window is still broken the same way it was all those decades back.