“Have you ever seen the Ka’abah during rain?”
For a second there is silence except for an airplane flying low above, and the sound of a spoon scraping against the plate. Any second now and she will get up, pick up the plate I am taking forever to finish and head towards the sink. It is that time in night where everyone is asleep except for the two of us.
“I have,” she pauses, smiling, “You were with me too. Yaad nahi hai?”
“Ammi, I was some months old. Bilkul yaad nahi hai.”
I want to stand here and let this rain cleanse every speck of dust that is me. Everything that is unnecessary, temporary, unneeded- let that be washed away like it has in so many monsoons here in this city I call home.
Sometimes even when bijli fails and you bring out the candles, all there is left is deja vu. Even in the shadows and the silence. There is that sense of belonging that can always be found in the most ordinary places. That feeling you get that when you realise that taking that leap of faith itself has ensured that you’re safe and sound. Sure there might be a few scrapes and scratches every now and then but somehow, you’ll always find the strength to get back up. In all honesty, I don’t know how to phrase these words. I really do doubt the claim that I’m good with words in such moments of having so much to say and not finding the right words to. Will it be like that when I stand there? Rain or sunshine. Darkness or light. Wetness or warmth. I think it will be like going home. I think it will be home.