@visitofmyhometown: Things I Carried Back

   The Moment Froze 

That night,
I looked up,
and the sky opened like a quiet book —
every star,
a sentence I’d forgotten how to read.

The wind whispered like an old friend,
carrying secrets in a language I once knew.

The stars weren’t stars.
They were windows —
looking into versions of me I never became.

The silence wrapped around me
like a thick woolen shawl —
heavy, warm, and full of memories.

And just when I began to understand…
the clouds arrived —
not like weather,
but like a curtain call.

The sky shut its story.

I stood there —
a closed book in the rain.

I didn’t speak.
I didn’t move.

Because in that moment,
I wasn’t just under the sky…

I was part of it.

And maybe…
I still am.
A page left open,
somewhere above the clouds. 

@visitofmyhometown day-4

The Mountains Were Saying Goodbye

I was leaving.

The bus moved slowly,
and my heart even slower.

Morning, around eight —
no fog yet, no rain.
Just a clear sky
stretched wide like silence.

The mountains looked awake,
green and endless,
with little homes
tucked into their chest
like secrets they’ve kept forever.

I kept looking.
Not blinking.
Not breathing too loud.

For a few minutes,
everything felt open,
like the hills were finally letting me in.

And then —
the fog returned.

Soft. Slow.
Not to scare me…
but to gently take it all away.

Like someone pulling a blanket
over a memory too precious to touch.

The view disappeared.
But something stayed.

And I knew —
the mountains weren’t just there.

They were saying goodbye. 

@visitofmyhometown day-11

Halfway Home

The city was awake.
But I wasn’t part of it anymore.

I sat in the cab —
not talking, not scrolling —
just watching things I didn’t belong to.

Traffic signals blinked like they were tired.
Shops opened like routines.
People crossed the roads,
carrying umbrellas, bags,
and a kind of rush I couldn’t carry anymore.

My phone buzzed —
“Reached?”
“Kahan tak पहुँचा?”

I replied.
But honestly,
I wasn’t even here.

I was already somewhere else.

Somewhere softer,
where silence isn’t empty,
it’s comforting.

Where air doesn’t smell like smoke —
it smells like mitti after rain.

Where my name isn’t just called,
it’s remembered.

I stared out the window,
pretending to look at posters, people, cars —
but inside,
I was imagining green hills,
tin roofs,
the turn near the temple,
and that moment
when the bus finally bends towards home.

I wasn’t excited.
I was aching.

Because city life moves fast,
but love...
love waits quietly,
right where you left it.

@visitofmyhometown day-0

Tomorrow, I Said

 I didn’t say anything.

Not because I didn’t feel it.

But because if I had,
it would’ve broken the room.

I stood near the door —
bag packed,
eyes not meeting anyone’s for too long.

She asked,
“Ready?”
I nodded.
That was my way of saying,
I’m not.

Grandfather pressed money into my hand.
I didn’t resist.
Didn’t say “no, no, it’s fine”
like I usually do.

Because if I had opened my mouth —
I might’ve cried.

I just folded it quietly,
like a memory you keep inside a diary.

I sat in the backseat of the taxi.

No music.
No words.
Just the silence of someone
who left too soon,
and knew it.

I didn’t look back.
Not because I didn’t want to…
but because I knew
the face in the window
would break me.

So I stared ahead.
Told myself,
I’ll come back tomorrow.

I knew I was lying.

But sometimes,
that lie is all you have
to keep breathing.

@visitofmyhometown day-2

The Moment I Said My Name

I didn’t knock.
I didn’t need to.

Every door I passed,
every window I crossed —
faces looked up.

Not in surprise,
but in soft recognition.

Maybe they didn’t know my name.
Maybe they weren’t sure
whose son I was.

But they stared —
not like a stranger,
but like a faded photograph
they had almost remembered.

A child asked, “Who are you?”
An elder didn’t.

The difference
between curiosity…
and connection.

I wasn’t fully known —
but I was fully accepted.

And in that moment,
I learned something
city life never teaches:

You don’t always need to be recognised
to feel at home.

Sometimes, being felt
is more than being remembered.

—

But when I did say it —
softly, almost unsure,
“I’m so-and-so’s grandson…”

something changed in their eyes.

They smiled wider,
like time had rewound.

“Arre! I saw you when you were this small.”
“You look just like your father.”
“You’ve grown… and now we’re old.”

Their voices turned into memory,
their eyes into photo albums.

They weren’t seeing me now —
they were seeing everything
that came before me.

And I stood there,
not just as a person,
but as a reminder:

That time passes.
That children grow.
That we all become the people
we once watched from behind doorways.

And suddenly,
I wasn’t a visitor —

I was a story
they had once known,
and now…
remembered again.

@visitofmyhometown day-3

The Homes That Stayed Behind

I sat by the roadside.

Just sat.

My home was somewhere ahead,
but the mountains distracted me.

They looked tired.
Like they’d stopped waiting.

The homes —
stitched into their arms like old scars.

Windows that didn’t blink anymore.
Doors left ajar by memory.

I didn’t know what I was looking at.
Or what I was looking for.

A feeling?
A person?
Something that had once said my name?

Maybe that’s why people leave.

Not to go somewhere,
but to stop hearing what they used to be.

Maybe someone told them 
“You can be more,
somewhere else.”

Or maybe the mirror just broke one day
and showed them a stranger
they wanted to become.

Maybe that is it.
Or not.

I don’t know.

The village didn’t cry when they left.
The homes didn’t scream.

They just dimmed.

Like a candle still lit,
but unsure who it's glowing for.

And now, years later,
the people scroll through pictures
of places that still remember them.

While the mountains remain —
quiet, aching,
but not angry.

I didn’t speak.

But the dust at my feet,
the trees overhead,
and the homes around me
all nodded
like they already knew
what I couldn’t put into words.

@visitofmyhometown day-4

To the One That Never Spoke

You stood there,
wearing the same quiet
you wore yesterday.

I returned —
not to be welcomed,
but to watch
how you never reached for me,
yet never turned away.

You let the sky dress you differently each time,
and still,
you never asked how you looked.

I envy that.

That kind of stillness.
That kind of being
without needing to be named.

I whispered things
you didn’t answer.

But maybe…
just maybe —
the way your shadows shifted
was your reply.

I almost bowed.

But stopped.

You didn’t ask for worship.

Just presence.

@visitofmyhometown day-7 

 

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