Home.

There is nothing more fascinating than the sound of footsteps on a staircase leading me home, a place which is drowned in sunlight and silence; and even the buzzing sound of the refrigerator is a welcoming greeting, a place to create more memories for the day; to end it and start it simultaneously, in harmony, grace and gratitude.

I don’t mind a small space and crammed belongings, not when they are organised in a way where I can find what I want to, not when there is an abundance of sunshine and light that passes through windows always open, with blinds pulled to the sides, even in the evenings so that I could spend the hours before I sleep in veneration, watching the shadows flicker on the walls. Not only this, but to wake knowing that it’s day, discerning when to open my eyes so wide, and when to shut them again, reconnecting with dreams scheduled for the night.

There is nothing more beautiful than the fragrance of a home; spices of recently baked goodies involving cinnamon and orange peels and also homemade vanilla candles, plants stacked in the few empty spaces near the balcony and windows, diffusing scents so wild and fresh, colourising the atmosphere; turning it green, white and blue— colours of a forest that smells like mint, pines obscuring the royalty of the sky above them.

A home is a place where beauty is always accessible, and change comforting and pleasing. A spot full of laughter and tears resulting from episodes of unbroken memories and conversations, even silences of varied dimensions and plots; those invaded by the sounds of motor cycles and kids playing outside on a weekend.

A home is one coloured so naturally, made of wood, clothed in velvety cotton in terms of bedsheets. Curtains so feeble that they flutter with every sigh of the wind, the sunlight piercing through even on the gloomiest day, allowing reflections of the blue cushions to form on the walls. Even the mirrors don’t hesitate to create the rainbows as the light hits them, and I never tire of taking their pictures.

Home is one where music is an anthem, allowing our feet to lift as we walk, twisting our bodies into twirls as we move from room to room, and I’d practise those arabesques and leaps as I hear the melodies of a known symphony, pretending I was made of feathers; so light that the compressions and rarefactions of sound were able to lift me afloat, and I’d do what I’d do in those centimetres above the ground. We’d change the music with the seasons, playlists that constantly evolve as we discover something new, or create something ourselves and sing along the evenings away, our voices strengthening the columns against the harshest earthquakes.

Home is where we take pleasure in spending the evening reading our favourite books near a warm nightlight on the armchairs, discussing lessons and sharing quotes, debating conflicting views and lapsing into serious disagreements, laughing at them afterwards. Knowledge and enlightenment would pound through, taking us further within our minds, empowering our observations to hold much more meaning and potential, getting closer and closer to making a difference in the world.

Home is where we pray together, close our eyes as the azaan calls, hurrying to make that one ethereal connection with God. Gratitude is a language uttered through every movement, entwining the blessings bestowed upon us, making sure they’re thoroughly acknowledged, fighting off the ignorance. At home, we are boundlessly kind, to ourselves and to each other, making sure we are all safe, all free of conflict and sadness, all healthy and grounded. We stick together in times of crisis, exerting the effort to reignite love in hearts barren with realities and bureaucratic responsibilities. We find ways to inspire it all the time, even if time does not suffice, but it’s always an item on our to-do list.

Home is a breakfast of luscious fruits and vegetables, coffee and tea in mugs that hide our faces as we drink them. It is also, the view of the outside, watching the water sprinklers in the gardens causing those crystals to diffract— a show of a thousand rainbows, and we look at them and laugh every single time at how symbolic it is, and quite beautiful indeed.

Home is where we can express freely, be ourselves and communicate our deepest thoughts. It is where we are together, even when apart, a place we can always gather, always heading to with a smile and a quickened, excited heart beat.

I’m doing what it takes to create this home, just because I didn’t have one for a long long time. I remember as a kid, I’d despise weekends because I knew home held so much criticism and bereavement. It was always a place bustling with conflict and discomfort, until I realised I could detach, and live in the daydreams of a home I can build by myself.

Home is family— bonds that belong to our efforts and work just to keep it going, because it keeps us safe, because it keeps us happy.

And that is all— a place insignificant by all means in monetary terms, but one that treasures illusions of diamonds and gold, in the name of love— and only that.