I felt homesick. Sick to my gut a couple of times but mostly just exhausted from dealing with this emptiness. I arrived very late for my morning literature class. My professor asked me, “Are you unwell, Seema?” I was stunned. What could I say? Was homesickness a real thing?
I nodded. Finally.
“Oh! What happened?”
“I feel homesick.”
“I can’t send you to the nurse for that, Seema. You will have to suffer through this class then.”
I slunk into my chair and for the rest of the hour just twiddled my thumbs. The professor didn’t pull me up for my distracted behaviour. At the end of the hour, I was still lost in my own thought. I lived at home. It had a roof, a few walls and warmth. For the most part. It kept me safe from cold and rains.
But I was homesick.
I read about home and imagined it in ways like it didn’t exist. Not like mansion like in the fairy tales or the ones filled with hope. Just this one didn’t meet my expectations and I longed to go to places or be places where this sickness in my gut vanished. Even momentarily. I travelled in this hope. To other towns, villages, beaches, mountains and no woman or man’s land. Constantly searching for a glimpse of home.
Have I missed it somewhere here? In the arrogance of home being anywhere but here?