There used to be a shop near my house called Cash Stationers. Actually, its still there. I once saw a 3" x 5" rectangular notepad there that I decided to buy. I used to carry it around in my pocket, to school mostly, in case I thought of a poem and wanted to write it. When I stopped writing poetry, I just forgot about those notepads until I got another notepad a few months ago as a gift. Those notepads were the only place I ever wrote spontaneous poetry in. They were just the right size to carry and the red ink always settled very nicely. I think I'll love red on white, slightly smudged, slightly absorbed, until I die. I never found the one with the art paper again though. Only cheaper quality notepads that I had to make do with. I think I got through a dozen.
A few months ago, I was sitting on one of the small stools in the kitchen, the ones that make you feel like a little child again, waiting for the water to boil. I was making tea for my dad and thought how cool a feeling that was, to be home again, doing home-things in a warm kitchen where everything was as familiar as it was leisurely. But later, in a different city, in a place just called home, a place that I have to remember by numbers - fourth right turn, third house on the left - a place I have to recognize by signboards and which I sometimes pass over in the dark because I miss the gate, a place where almost-strangers let you in when you ring the bell; I waited the same wait, standing and waiting for the water in a newer pateeli . It wasn't warm at all; it was just a cheerless, empty, disconsolate feeling. It made me feel low to even think of another place as home. Eating in alien plates, drinking in alien glasses. I never learnt to memorize the house number or the telephone n...
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