Coming Home ... From Home

Bunking 16 classes in 3 days and liable to get a medical certificate for it, I ate lunch under constant envy. The three busiest days of the last term at an IIM and I was going to get away with sleeping in my room and watching movies. Envy is not what you expect after 3 days of 'malaria-like-symptoms'. But life's not fair. 25th, 26th and 27th of December. A major festival, my parents' anniversary and a close cousin's birthday - all spent sleeping. I had had enough. I was bored of bunking classes, of watching movies and of getting envied for it. And then my past caught up with me. A few days ago, I and Sanket Bhale had planned to go home to end the year. We'd even gone a step further and booked tickets.

As I sat in the auto taking me to the railway station with barely minutes to catch my train, I so joyfully exclaimed - I'm going home! So much for the classes, so much for the globe and so much for the envy. Home was where I was headed. Finally, after an inspired run across almost the entire length of each of Kozhikode's railway platforms, I finally sat down and let the sweat and the thoughts pour.

Calicut, or Kozhikode, as I know it, had been home to me for the past 18 months. Every time I went to Mumbai in a term break, home meant Kozhikode. Kerala, the lush green country, the backyard economy where the easiest way to have coconut water was to climb a tree with an axe. Where a two-laned road that could barely accomodate your bike and the oncoming bus was called the National Highway. And where you would get fined for overtaking on a right turn but not for having 2 pillon riders. That is what home was. Now, something was changing. Mumbai was home again.

Kozhikode was special. Everytime we returned, we'd laugh at the arbitrariness of the shops. Chit funds had proper offices. Some were Hilarious, literally. Chit funds being what they are, based on trust and the fear of social stigma, 'Hilarious Chit Funds' seemed like a very audacious name to give to your company. But over 18 months, it had only grown if nothing else. Kozhikode, where everything lay on one road, so you were either going towards your destination or directly away from it. Villages would pass by on such journeys, much like two rows of houses on either side of the road, like somebody forgot that you could build perpendicular roads. Bylanes were a rarity and driving skills ever more so. Where the Highway Patrol actually patrolled and the Traffic Police would rather find an excuse to let you off than accept a bribe.

Coming home from Mumbai was always an experience you didn't want to miss. The airport had thrice as many international flights as domestic ones. The houses, resplendent in their violets, mauves and bright yellows, always managed to stand out against the tropical coastal vegetation (which is mostly coconut tree trunks). So did the long queues in front of what we thought were Government Ration Shops. It only took one trip to shop for liquor to correct us.

It was a different home from the one I'd grown up in. But the short while that it was home, it was a solace to return. On this afternoon of 28th December, this journey with Bhale and Saxena, from Calicut to Mumbai, is different. I'm going home, from home.