I walked down the cracked tar road, my weathered, once-white shoes making the only sound for miles. The smell of tea and samosas lingered in the damp air; a smell reserved for monsoon teatimes.  

The evening sky was cotton-candy blue, wispy clouds strung through it like streamers. The faint chill in the air teased my bare knees and caressed my ankles. 

The houses that lined the sidewalk all looked alike; ochre skin hugging square windows and a red tile roof. 

They had seemed so foreboding, so foreign on our first encounter. 

But the homesickness had been grudgingly replaced by familiarity. 

The smell of mud mixed with bleach and rain, the sound of the trees at half-past six, the corner window with it’s lights on till the wee hours of morning, the foggy beginnings of December days and the lights at night through a rain-soaked window. 

Slowly, through it’s bits and pieces, I’d come to call this place Home. 

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