So, yeah. One has returned home after five long, tedious, mind-raping, back-aching, face-tanning, peace-banning, morale-shaking, masti-making, architecture-learning, degree-yearning years (One is out of rhyming, present-perfect continuous verbs). Of course, being back also provides brand new connotations to the phrase, ‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire’, considering one has gone from swimming through Chennai’s Rice Starch Humidity to baking in Delhi’s Bread in Oven Heat. Despite that, one still revels in the excitement of a flat bed with bedsheets that smell of home, laundered clothes that look like only Ma could have folded them and streets that give you the creeps post 7 p.m., but nevertheless feel like one’s own. One also realizes that one needs to stop talking like one is British royalty, but one has decided that since it is one’s own blog, one shall address oneself in whatever terms one deems right.

*loud, resounding thwack*


The welcome party at the station included a grand total of three people – Ma, my sister and the cab driver. Once Ma was done with fainting at the sight of a squinting blue whale incarnate that very, very slightly resembled her elder daughter of five years ago; there was complete chaos as four Bengalis tried to take control of a situation that required no taking control of, considering it only involved stacking all my 110 pieces of luggage into a tiny Omni, which would be succeeded by 5 human beings piling in as well. Post that, Ma began showering me with 5 years worth of pearls of wisdom that she had been storing, while my sister gave me extremely relieved looks now that she wasn’t at the receiving end. The ‘pearls’ have not stopped, sometimes slipping in between dinners, sometimes it is the first thing I hear in the morning, sometimes WHILE I’m on the phone with someone, most of the times when I am half asleep. What I have gotten till now is the equivalent of a hundred Mikimoto necklaces and I am considering selling them all and making my millions. There are also the regular fights, amounting to about 20,000 a day. Baba out-volves himself as much as possible, when three cackling women turn to him to arbitrate. He might as well have been meditating on a very noisy Mount Kailash.

My sister exhibits much disdain at my appearance. If she were to be believed, then the only way new clothes for me would exist would be if Ma stitched them for me out of our curtains. I promise her, while I munch on a bag of Lays, that I would start exercising. Tomorrow. And then there is T.V. Imagine how deprived I must have been if Kareena Kapoor’s verbal volley while Saif Ali Khan records her favorite soap provides me with fodder for much glee. While Ma watches one of her Bengali soaps, I plant myself next to her and make supreme fun of the actor who pronounces confirm as ‘kaun-farm’. And then proceed to watch with her for the next 20 minutes. Just to find out if one of them says ‘confirm’ again, of course. Apart from that, I have managed to fall ill and shamelessly accepted all care and food offered while I acted like the ongoing migraine would definitely be the end of me. Oh, and I cooked. Sāmbhar. Enough to feed a hundred priests. And that was only lunch.

The best test however, of how awesome it is being at home , takes place when you wake up at the crack of dawn (or 9 a.m., call it what you may), go to the loo, return and crash onto the bed diagonally. And then Ma starts yelling at you for sleeping like a Polar bear in hibernation, stretching across the part of the bed where she wants to stack all the folded clothes and would you please, for the love of God, sleep like a girl? And amidst the entire ruckus and the giggling you are doing with your face buried into your pillow, you manage to fall into a deep, comfortable, teddy bear-huggy sleep. 🙂