Mirage.

no, i do not have a home.

I see three girls sitting at the terrace, next to my building. They are discussing, rather loudly, about the eventual regret that settles after a person is gone from our lives. "You will regret the presence of this person, after you're through with them."

I smile as I can see myself talking hoarse with Sreyasha and Prerana, sitting on a stranger's chaat. "Chaat is the finest antidote for all that is irreparably bishonno," I had read somewhere. And, I miss our chaat. Our midnight discussions, that conclude upon one note - no, we are never through with some people even after their absence, voluntary or otherwise. And our conversations don't limit themselves to the psychological implications that life has on us, it is myriad. It travels through dark alleys, in strange taxis, through yellow lights, manifesting in our sudden decision to pull a night that we will forever remember. Sudden, unplanned never-ending night that led itself to the dawn at a forlorn park where we can discuss our political ideologies and listen to a single song, over and over again. We could never recreate that night. Perhaps, we can repeat our stunt, but for that we have to be in sohor. And, sohor is where they are, where there is yellow taxis, and where there is a sense of belonging to the era where rock music and revolutionary leaders meet at a clandestine chaa'er bhaar. But, in a strange city I see those girls dealing with life, and I know everyone has their own sohor in their own little worlds. Mine is segregated in three different climates, two different people only waiting for a night when we can become how we see ourselves. No. I do not have a home. And, I do not regret it. I have something far more everlasting. I have sohor, that refuses poriborton, that still has three young confused minds trying to make a sense of each other and only realising that the essence of their beings only remain in their chaos. Sohor is made up of our remnants, and we are made up of its. Our detritus is found in the cigarette butts that we discard, and in the passerby's who discard us. The horizon doesn't change, not a bit. Fuck meeting halfway, we cross the bridge every damn time. Because, we know, to get to sohor we have to walk wearing our hearts upon our sleeves. And, we don't mind. Atleast, I can speak for myself, I don't mind. Because, I know once I cross the bridge, I will see the field, and the trams, and the Eden, and Park Street, and Coffee House. I will find a yellow taxi, and it will take me to my sohor.