I gotta find my way home.

I have been living like a nomad over the past few months. Wake up each morning to a new routine. Each day is defined and made use of by the moment. Perpetual uncertainty. It was hard initially, for I was so used to regularity. But now, I am flowing with it. Some days are more rapid than others. Louder than others. Sweeter than others. The 'others' are dealt with patience and hope. I am aging in both.

New friends have been made with words that are gently whispered in the ear with rhythm and those that are inked in black on sheets that embrace me. I converse with them everyday over a cuppa of hot something. We get lost in each other. Always.

Its a newer city. It has changed since I last walked it and breathed it. Nevertheless, it is treating me well. A new relation is growing between us. It is bitter-sweet like most. New routes have been traversed and explored. It will continue this way for a while.

The Colour Purple lies finished, with its back to me. The colour is deep and moving. Its hard to let go of it. I think I'll be purple for a long time to come. The Little Man awaits me. Its about a boy who's 2 inches tall and out to conquer the world. I would love to join him. Pack a bag and walk the stretch of the earth. I've always wanted to do it. I shall. Someday.

I've used up 8 packets of M-seal since yesterday. You might think I've turned into a master sculptor. I would like to think the same. Its a beautiful crown, that which I am supposed to make. Hope it turns out as pretty as I expect it to be.

I want to go back to 355. Pull down the curtains, give them a wash and hang them back up. Smell the room turn fresh. Open wide the balcony door to oversee the mist rising to hug me from the baby green foliage that spreads across on the ground below. Listen to the pigeons flutter and argue. Run down the aisle beckoning people for a meal. A meal we are sure not to relish, but its the eating together that is important. Take the plate out in the warm sun and chat more than eat. Fold my clothes neatly in piles and clear the bed that is a beautiful blue. Smile at the soft board that has faces, old and new, smiling back.

I have not been a huge lover of the winter season, but I must admit I miss it. Much more than I thought I would. Hands turning numb under the tap. Cheeks blushing pink outdoors. Holding on to a freezing bus pillar, only to get off at a stop that'll serve the warmest and tastiest parathas. Give and receive bear hugs. It might be cold, but the blood runs warm.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there's a field. I'll meet you there. - Rumi.

Maybe thats where home is for most of us.