Where is Home?

The bright full moon night was pierced by the sound of gunshots and trucks rolling by. Though we’d been expecting bad things to happen, we had never yet known the sharp fear that pierces through the heart like an electric shock when the enemy is at hand. Will we be spared? Will the trucks pass us? Or will we be rounded up and shot at?

I looked at the figure lying beside me, his body still, eyes wide open. FEAR written in them too. We embraced each other, the last time it was to be. The moment I left his arms and lay down on the mattress beside him, a rocket pierced through the roof of the house and hit the exact spot where my huge body had covered him only a few moments ago.

Numbed, no noise came out of my mouth though they were wide open like that of a crocodile’s jaws. There were more rockets and bullets, and I thought I’d be joining him soon. But the trucks passed, showering their murderous blessings indiscriminately, and I was left alone.

I looked around at the devastation and the death. What had been a loving home five minutes back was rubbles now. The fruit of our dreams, our years of savings, our meticulous design, our heavenly abode - it was all gone except for a few pillars and windows that stood. It was the home that we’d so carefully built. It was where we’d hoped our son would be born and would grow up to be a strong gentleman. How many times hadn’t we pictured our bundle of joy playing in the brand-new cradle that now stood lonely in the next room, with no walls around it and no roof over it?

We. Our. Us. Never would I be able to use these words in the same way again. The bullets had taken him away from me. A part of me was gone, forever. I sat for a long time cradling his head. The body was detached from it. 

After what seemed like many long hours, someone came and pulled me up and hauled me into a truck. “She’s heavily pregnant”, I could hear them whisper. “What should we do?”

I was dropped off somewhere. I was too fatigued and broken to keep my eyes open. I didn’t bother trying either. 

I don’t know when it must have started. Those cramps. The bone-breaking pain. The tightening of the muscles in the abdomen. I writhed. A calloused hand massaged my temples soothingly while two other hands pinned me down. I could hear somebody recite the verses from the holy book.

After a few minutes, a shrill cry pierced the thick air. “Thank God! It’s a baby boy”, somebody whispered. I opened my eyes now. My son. My blood. I reached out to hold him. There was jubilation even amidst the grief and the pain and the poverty that are characteristic of refugee camps everywhere.

Was it on this side of the border or the other? I didn’t know at that time. It was only later that I realized I’d crossed countries even as my body lay limp. We were now in no man’s land, the empty space between two nations. No country to call our own. No home to shield us.

But life has to move, and time doesn’t stop. And we kept moving often, trying to find safer places where we could settle down and make a home. I moved along with the others in the camp, not knowing what else to do. Days fused into the nights and the nights into the days. Life had become devoid of dreams, a mere animal existence.

Some kind souls brought us wheat and potatoes on most days and we, the women in the camp, cooked, each vying to take away the best portions for her loved ones. On other days, we went to sleep on an empty stomach.

My son turned one sooner than I could count the days. I looked at him asleep beside me where the fire was lit and the vessels placed and wondered how different this day would have been had it not been for that fateful night or that cursed war that no one was ever going to win.

It’s when your little one’s feet start growing that you realize you have more reasons to live than you’d thought you had. The dreams that I’d once dreamed with my dead husband now returned to me. Unlimited dresses and toys. A good school. A happy childhood. A safe home.

These wouldn’t be possible if I stayed on here. I needed to move on. I heard some of the women speak of plans to go elsewhere, a better country. You’d have to take a boat, they’d said. But without a man to lean on, I’d have to do all things by myself.

I walked over to one of those agents who frequented the camp and offered hopes of greener pastures. The charge was outrageous, but he promised me a priority.

It still took many weeks for the boat to be ready. I hurriedly bid goodbye to some of the friendships that had blossomed here, sharing in on the tiny joys and the momentous sorrows. 

I clutched my son close as we tried to find space in the overcrowded boat that was crudely and hastily built. The sea waves lashed against its sides and often poured in, drenching us. We then had to use tins and cans to put the water back to where it belonged.

After many days of choppy ride, I, this time along with my toddler son, was once again thrown on alien lands. For many days, we kept together with some of the friendlier people from the boat and stayed near the coast, evading the armed patrolling men.

One dawn, I woke up with a burning sensation, dizziness, and severe nausea. I clutched my stomach. It was the cost of the boat ride. My eyes teared up, but I couldn’t cry, not in front of my son.

For many days, I was left tired and couldn’t move. The others in the group slowly went their ways. It was not safe to stay crowded together.

It was now just me and my son and an unborn child. We slept under the open skies, lived off raw fish and seaweeds. What if I die? No, I couldn’t do that to my son. My mind rubbished the thought, and I willed myself harder to live. We foraged for food, begged for water and medicines, and hid from the native authorities who were always on the lookout for people without proper papers.  

But luck ran out one day. And we were caught by the patrolling soldiers. We were once again sent to some camp. But it was better than where we’d lived earlier. The food was different but seemed cleaner and more nutritious. 

Kind volunteers visited us often. Realizing my condition, they put me and my son up in a less crowded tent. 

I watched my son sit nervously on the warm mattress they’d given us, a luxury compared to the beds that we’d used earlier that were made out of leaves and rugs. I smiled at him. And he smiled back weakly.

“Will we have a home now? Is this our home?” he asked. An innocent three-year-old’s question. 

What did he know about the house that his father and I had sacrificed a lot to build for him? What does he know of the difference between one’s home country and adopted country? What does he know about nationalism and internationalism?

Though yet to reach forty, I’d already realized that home is everywhere and nowhere. Home is where the heart is at peace and where you can live freely. Home travels along with you where ever you and your family go. 

But not the one to disappoint him, I kissed him and replied, “Soon.”

Now I’d have to live up to my promise. And I was determined to give it my best try.

My second baby came in towards the end of the year, on a freezing cold night. I was surprised how well I could accept this new baby as my own flesh and blood. 

A few days later the volunteers brought some papers and took my signatures and our photographs. We waited in the queue in front of the office for many days, till a few months later they said “Be happy, you’ve been granted asylum here.’’

It’s a different home now. But I’ll get used to it. I’ve learned to get used to it. But for my children and their children, this will be the only home they’ve known. The rest are all stories from afar.