There are some words that are born unbidden in the psyche and continue to exist quietly, without disturbing the rhythm of daily life. For me, that word was Home.

Well, I grew up in a loving family. I was cared for, my needs met. It was in a moment of distress, a time when I found myself crying, huddled in the corner of my room, that the realisation was born — here I was, alone, hysterical, with a very loving family downstairs who would be willing to do everything to put me at ease. But in the depths of my heart, I knew there was something in the beat of my heart that no one could soothe.

And that, I was utterly alone in.

In that moment, unbeknownst to me, the search for Home began forming in my consciousness, eventually becoming the central theme of my life.

No wonder, my work with plants is titled

Coming Home to Herbs.

The Inner Unsettling of the Familiar

Surely, such a search rarely accommodates a life of comfort. To the person, the search takes the form of a mrig-trishna — like the musk deer that spends its life chasing a fragrance whose source lies within itself. The expected movement of such a search is rarely outward. More often, it takes the form of caving in — inner collapse, sweet seasons of quiet tragedy — until an unmistakable moment arrives when their back hits the wall and they realise that nothing from their previous world has the capacity to hold them anymore. They are drawn to acknowledging, kneeling before, and calling out to that power in the Universe which birthed them, knowing with a certainty as intimate as the back of their hand that they could not possibly be so forsaken.

It is a cry to the invisible world — to come forth and show itself, for life can no longer be lived without its presence. Perhaps that is how prayer is born: as a natural human expression of an inner knowing of something bigger than our perception of life. And perhaps that homelessness brings forth the deepest seeking — for Home.

It was at such a juncture that I consciously began to question the real nature of this place called Home. This quest birthed another term: A Place Called Home — the clear starting point for all future tumblings and endeavours.

One thing began to take shape: before being a physical place, Home is a feeling. And if it is a feeling, you have to know who is the one feeling it. Would it then become a quest for Self? Books can attempt to answer these questions, to bring an understanding; but these are things that are fanned and nurtured through a spirit of enquiry. To be inner-stood, rather than under-stood.

As quoted by Rumi:

“Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.”

As expected, any quest at the beginning is like walking in circles. While it may appear futile on the surface, it is not so in reality. You see, it will always bring you back to the most obvious place. The truth hidden in plain sight. In this case, the physical dwelling. The house. The shelter. The “roof over one’s head,” that most basic requirement alongside food and clothing.

This brings me to one clear learning: the quest still has to play itself out within the structures of ordinary life. We need the house, the roof, the food, the clothing, the basic structures that allow life to continue while something deeper is being sought. It is like being in a prison while painstakingly and quietly digging a tunnel underneath the surface. The structures provide sustenance until you are able to inhabit life from somewhere deeper than the structures themselves.

Back to the topic. While shelter is an assumed necessity, for most it remains invisible owing to familiarity. It keeps the weather out. Provides safety. Allows a place for rest. It does its job quietly, and we stop noticing it. Much like background music.

But a house is not quite the same as a home.

Human beings are remarkably capable of surviving almost any environment. People live in vast houses and cramped rooms, in beautiful spaces and neglected ones, and somehow they adapt. Yet survival does not meet the part within that burns with unasked questions. And perhaps the idea of basic shelter is also to set the basics in place and provide opportunities for deeper insights into life.

Having lived in multiple houses, I began to notice a subtle, almost invisible quality — the house wasn’t merely a physical structure. Rather, it had the ability to influence the course of life of its inhabitants.

The house that became central to giving tangible shape to my search for Home had a single window in my room. Each morning I opened it to sunlight; each evening I drew the curtains for privacy. I often left the window itself ajar for air. Light and breeze became central to setting the rhythm of the day. My living space shifted to the yoga-mat-sized space facing it. I would eat there, work there, pray there, rest in leisure. Slowly, my books began lining the periphery and it became my living, sleeping, eating and working quarters.

It was home. It still is. Whenever I need to recalibrate my sense of safety, my mind returns to that space with sunlight streaming through the window in the cold winter months.

Later, I moved to another house and my room had a window facing another building. Curtains became a necessity to manage exposure, even if it was at the cost of suffocation. Breath came dear.

In both places, morning meant being open to the world; and evening meant withdrawal. But what became significant here was the uncomplaining acceptance of everything, for even in the seemingly bleak reality, there certainly was some grace. All I had to do was to turn my face in that direction.

As if in appreciation for the stoic heart, I moved to another house with a room with a wide, unobstructed window facing the open skies. No building with curious eyes to peep in.

I lived with sunrise, moonrise, clouds passing, darkness deepening — the sky itself becoming a clock. I laughed at the self-judgement — at how I had intellectually constructed “discipline” — when all my body needed to function well was natural light. The struggle with sleep, waking up early — they all vanished like dewdrops before the sun. It was not my fault. It never had been. I wondered if there were more conveniences of modern life which deprived my body of its basic requirements.

Curtains were no longer necessary for privacy. Instead, they began to evoke something contained in the word itself — curtain, purdah. A relationship with myself that existed only when I was shielded from human eyes.

In the past, I had stayed for a long time in a house where the windows of my room faced a road which carried the weight of incessant traffic. Moving to this room which faced the open skies, one thing became clear: a home does not only watch the road. It watches the light.

These wall-high openings, with their curtains — one layer sheer, another heavier — regulated how much of the outside world entered at once. Too much exposure made my space feel restless, as if it, and by extension I, could not settle. Too little left it heavy, airless, as if stagnating — and with it, me experiencing the same. I could appreciate the intuitive intelligence of traditional homes, where shutters, curtains and coverings were not merely for privacy but for discernment — active tools for modulating contact with the outside world. And also, that it was the inhabitant, the person, whose way of life influenced the home as much as the home influenced their life.

I also began understanding that a home that never closes its eyes does not sleep well. Windows should not be left perpetually bare, for they may create a subtle sense of unease, as though the space itself cannot retreat. Opening and closing them intentionally, even briefly, restores rhythm. The house learns when to witness and when to turn inward.

This journey with the window provided deeper insight into other parts of the house as well. For instance, the entrance. A threshold where outside becomes inside. To me, it felt almost like a mouth, receiving not only bodies but whatever they carry — urgency, fatigue, irritation, relief. Crossing it unconsciously spills the day inward; crossing it with awareness allows transition.

Noticing parts in this manner has enabled me to see the entire structure as an extension of my body. The periphery became the spine, distributing movement; corners became joints, gathering or shifting pressure; rooms became organs, each suited to a different part of me: solitude, sleep, work, influence, centering, celebration, gathering. When these functions are respected, the whole feels coherent. When they are blurred, the space grows unsettled.

Most of all, I began to notice that the home echoed my weight. It recognised my footsteps, my hours of wakefulness and rest. It held echoes of illness and recovery, of pain and laughter, of departures and return. This isn’t mere sentimentality; it is accumulation — the slow layering of lived experience. Beneath it all, the earth remembers too. A home, then, is not neutral space. It listens.

Now, the moment I enter home, I listen. My ears become alert to the smallest signs of curling or contraction, and I make adjustments to create an environment for blossoming. Home does not demand constant cleansing, rearranging or fixing. Like any living entity, it seeks relationship. Such living relationships aid learning of when the space feels tired, when it feels alert, when it is holding its breath, when it is quietly waiting to be used again.

Sometimes what restores a home is not rearrangement but presence: cooking a meal, opening a window at dawn, sitting without distraction, allowing ordinary life to move through it. Perhaps the search for Home began outward but, in its first revelation, ended in recognition. Beyond seeking walls and a roof, it became a seeking for a place that could hold me without resistance; a place where I could withdraw and emerge in rhythm, where I was neither exposed nor confined.

A place that remembered me, even when I forgot myself.

In learning to attend to the home as a living being, I began experiencing being held as one.