Displaced

Your feet itch. It’s an itch unlike any you have felt in a month. You’re going home in the morning. You cycle aimlessly, smiling at strangers. Today, there is no ducking for cover when it rains. When it stops, you go out dancing. Your feet itch still and morning hasn’t arrived yet. You spend the night staring at a strange sketch on a door in a strange room you’ve let yourselves in to. In the soft lights, you can’t quite tell what that sketch is but it doesn’t matter. It’s just a point of concentration. It’s one of those nights when you let in thoughts that otherwise unnerve you. Your fears are tempered by the serenity of the face lying asleep next to you. As always, people comfort you the most when they don’t mean to. Tonight, tomorrow looks beautiful, because tomorrow, you’re going home.

When you step off the plane in the morning, you instantly seek out the familiar. The minty breeze. You let it into your cab despite the driver’s protestations that the air-conditioning is on and will need to be paid for. You are unhurried when you arrive at home. You take a walk in the yard, inspecting your plants and picking out weeds before you unlock the door. The room is dirty. The cat has thrown up. It’s not the sight you wanted to come back to but you banish that thought promptly. It starts drizzling a bit but you don’t have much time to revel in it. The power goes out. This means you can’t clean up the mess in the house. There is a day-old pile of dishes in the sink, left behind by your friend who was staying over in your absence. You haven’t slept a wink all night but there is work to do. Laundry. No power. Vacuum. No power. Dishes. You don’t feel up to it. So you decide to make your first cup of adrak chai in a month. But instead of your tea leaves, you find a packet of instant coffee in the dabba. Then you notice the steel dabba in which you’d left laddoos for your friend. They’re still in there, stale and smelly. More work. You notice two new picture frames in the room. You also notice there is more food in the cat’s bowl than is needed. That’s now how they like it. They like small servings, replenished periodically. Meanwhile, the cats themselves aren’t entirely sure about your presence. They tip-toe around you, alert to any sudden movements. You chide yourselves for thinking that they’ve forgotten you.

Exhaustion catches up with you. You want to sleep but you notice new sheets in the bedroom and unfolded blankets. Neither are yours. So you pass out on the couch instead. When you wake up, it’s evening already. You look at the dirty room, the stale laddoos, the dishes in the sink and the cat-food. Afternoon naps have never worked for you and today is no exception. You feel sick. It’s a gloomy day. It starts raining in sheets and you sneeze your first sneeze of the day. The familiar allergy is back. You pore over your phonebook. There isn’t a name in there that you feel like making a call to. So you fix yourselves a drink and get down to work. The floor is scrubbed, the laundry is done, stale food in the refrigerator and the laddoos are emptied into the trash. The cat food is replenished. The dishes are done. Much wiping, much scrubbing, much cleaning. The day has passed. Without one conversation. It’s dark outside. You’re tired. You don’t want to take a stroll outside because the roads are dug up. 

What you want to do is go back to the city you couldn’t wait to escape, a night ago. Home isn't the escape. Home isn't the consolation.