My room is a mess right now. Bags half-packed. Things in piles that don't make sense yet. That familiar feeling again — I'm moving.
I've done this so many times that my body knows the drill before my brain catches up. The sorting, the letting go, the pretending it doesn't hurt.
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This was my longest home. Three and a half years in one place. That's a record for me.
Somewhere in my head, I trained myself — don't accumulate. Don't get attached to a shelf, a rug, a corner where the light hits just right in the morning. Because this is not permanent. None of it is.
So I kept things light. I told myself it was minimalism.
Maybe it was just survival.
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Fourteen homes in the last 16 years.
Ahmednagar. Pune. Different houses in Pune. Mumbai. Düsseldorf. Cologne. And now, the next one.
Each time I packed my bags, I thought I was moving toward something. And I was.
But I never stopped to notice what I was also leaving behind — the version of me that lived in that room, in that light, in that silence.
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Now something has shifted.
Earlier, I never thought much about it. Packing was just what I did. But now there's a voice that says — what if I just stayed?
What if I had one place? A base. Not a temporary address. A place where I could buy a painting and know it would hang on the same wall for years.
How would that feel? To not calculate whether something is worth carrying to the next city?
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But then — Change is part of life — whether you like it or not.
I'm not chasing anymore, not the way I used to. Now it's more about peace. And experiences. Those two things, side by side.
My heart craves the familiar. People. Places. The way a street smells when you've walked it a hundred times.
The last couple of years gave me everything at once — adventure, love, longing, solitude, excitement, fear, attachment, detachment. All of it, sometimes in the same week.
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One thing I know for sure. Whatever happens next, I'm ready.
But also — I want to feel at home. Not in a city. In myself. I want to do the work, let things happen, and stop bracing for the next departure.
Maybe belonging doesn't start with a place. Maybe it starts with me.
So here I am. Bags half-packed. Room in a mess. Heart somewhere between holding on and letting go.
Let's see the drama.
confidantly yours .....
