Home Is Not Just Where You Live — What I Learned in India

    Every time I come back to India, something feels new — even if it’s the same street or the same people. Maybe it’s because I notice things I didn’t before.

    Where my parents grew up, life moves slower, but it feels fuller. People have time to talk, the food tastes better, and the air feels like it’s telling stories. I used to think “home” meant the place where I live — where school, friends, and my usual life are. But now, I think home can exist in more than one place.

    Home isn’t just walls and rooms. It’s morning chai with family, friendly hellos from neighbors, and power cuts that turn into laughter-filled evenings. It’s the sound of honking traffic that somehow feels comforting, and the smell of rain that reminds you you’ve been here before.

    Through Diary With Dad, I’ve seen many sides of India. In Leh Ladakh, silence taught me peace. In the Rann of Kutch, I saw how people create art even in emptiness. In Chandigarh, I found calm in order. In Dalhousie, misty hills slowed time. And in Dharamshala, I felt how faith and diversity can live side by side.

    Each place felt different, but all of them felt like home.

    Living abroad, you forget small things — like how mangoes taste when they’re in season, or how strangers call you beta with a smile. In India, kindness is just part of the day. It’s the chai vendor who adds extra sugar because you look tired, or the auntie who won’t let you leave without taking snacks for later.

    This trip reminded me that “home” isn’t a single address. It’s comfort, connection, and belonging. It’s where you’re known — even if you’re just visiting.

    I can call two places home now: the one where I live and the one that lives inside me — India.
    Because sometimes, coming home isn’t about returning. It’s about remembering.
     

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    Because sometimes, discovering India is just another way of discovering yourself.

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