Home. A simple word, yet one that carries a thousand meanings. Is it a house with familiar walls? A city that holds your childhood? A person whose arms feel like refuge?
For me, home has never been a place. It is not in the brick walls of my childhood house, nor in the streets I once walked. Home is a feeling—something I carry within me, something that shifts and changes but never truly leaves.
When Home Is a Feeling
The first time I stepped into a foreign land, I expected to feel lost, displaced. Instead, I found freedom. I found that home was not a single place on a map, but the moments that made me feel alive.
As Amjad Islam Amjad beautifully wrote:
"Woh jo wafa ke raaste par chalay thay,
Unhen ab kisi ka pata nahi."
(Those who once walked the path of loyalty,
Now belong to no one, to no place.)
Perhaps that is what happens when you leave—your ties to a place begin to fade, and you learn that home was never in the walls or the streets, but in the way you felt when you were there.
I have found home in the smell of rain hitting dry earth, in the warmth of chai on a lonely evening, in the books that line my shelves like old friends. I have found home in moments of stillness, where the rush of the world quiets just enough for me to feel like I belong.
When Home Becomes a Person
There was a time when I believed home could be found in someone’s arms, in a voice that felt like a melody only my heart understood. Some people do become home for us—safe, familiar, irreplaceable.
But home built in another person is fragile. People leave, people change, and when they do, you are left wandering, searching for shelter in places that no longer exist.
As Parveen Shakir wrote:
"Main uske saath rahi jis ka koi naam nahi,"
"Kabhi jo mujhse milay usko mera salaam kehna."
(I stayed with someone who had no name,
If you ever meet them, send them my regards.)
I have learned that home cannot be borrowed from another. It must be built from within.
The Nostalgia of Home
No matter how far we go, the scent of home follows us in the smallest ways—the laughter of a stranger that sounds like someone we knew, the taste of food that reminds us of childhood, the first winter morning that feels like the ones we left behind.
Faiz Ahmed Faiz once wrote:
"Yaad aaye toh woh lamhe bhi nahi miltay,"
"Jo kabhi humne tere saath guzaare thay."
(Even memories fail us sometimes,
The moments we once spent together now lost.)
There are days when nostalgia grips me so tightly that I forget I have built something new. But then, I remind myself: home is not a place left behind, it is a feeling we recreate wherever we go.
Home Is What We Make It
I no longer search for home in places or in people. Instead, I find it in:
- The silence of the early morning before the world wakes up.
- The melody of an old song that knows my heart.
- The independence of standing on my own, knowing I built this life with my own hands.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe home is not a destination, but the comfort we build within ourselves.
Because in the end, home is not where we come from—it’s where we finally feel at peace.
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