A year later...

One year ago, on this day, I landed in this country, and set foot in my new home, that would be witness to our new life together, our happy times, happier phases, our disagreements and compromises, our shared dreams and aspirations, and be our address for some of the years ahead. I had changed home only once before, as a gap-toothed seven-year-old.  Twenty years later, I had hardly any memory of the early thrills, excitement or anxiety I (might have) experienced after moving to my new home. When I walked around the holy fire seven times with my husband at my wedding and took an oath that my heart, my soul would be with his everywhere, life after life, I officially clipped my roots travelling deep into the city that gave me birth, gave me life. While packing my bags in a haste, Ma didn’t appear conscious of the fact that I wasn’t leaving for a matter of a few days or months. Rather I was leaving forever to live in a faraway land, from where I would return to visit her once in a couple of years or so. As I child, I often confused between the concepts of intensity and length. To give a tangible idea of how much I loved my mother, I often said that, “I love you from here to the Americas”. While I was crying uncontrollably in her arms, before leaving for Boston with my husband, Ma mentioned that.

I may not be at home, I may not be around to startle you with my sudden hugs every now and then, but there is a bridge athwart oceans and continents that joins our hearts, our souls.
Ma, it has been exactly one year since I last buried my nose in your hair.