Celina Bagchi '24
When I step off the plane, the first thing
I notice is the humid air.
Sudden and engulfing, it wraps around my body
Like an unwelcome hug, forcing
My dark blue jeans to cling to my
Thighs while I take in
The loud airport, the hazy air, the
Stench.
I fill my mornings with masala chai and
Crunchy biscuits that crumble
Under my rough hands, unaccustomed to holding them.
I trade the rips in my jeans for paisleys on embroidered skirts, my
Neighborhood runs for rickshaw rides, my
Walk-in closet for armoires that smell of mothballs and dust, my
Quaker oats and blueberry smoothies for maacher jhol and mango lassi.
What is home? Surely it is not
This city, with its unfamiliar heartbeat, thrumming
with life I do not understand, nor is it
In the brash city I grew up in, where
No one knows what it means to fit in, but
Somehow everyone does.
Or perhaps home was always meant to be
An idea, a shifting concept, a
Place I never find but rather feel.
Perhaps home is you.