Early morning train rides, walking through crowed market-places, breathtaking temples at every corner, street food fragrance wafting through the air, incense and glowing lamps at dusk, there is so much to see do and experience in the only place that will ever be home. I will travel, I will experience new things but when I drift to sleep, I crave the comfort of home, of being able to worship at a temple or mosque or church or Gurudwara, my home where Eid is celebrated with as much excitement as Diwali; Durga Puja and Christmas share traditions, where Navroze Mubarak isn't just something alien on one's tongue, where we don't need a Harmony Day to celebrate diverse cultures.
Where wearing a Rabari shawl, bag or cuff isn't just a fad, where we know the meaning behind traditions and don't just jump on the cultural appropriation bandwagon because it is cool to suddenly pick and choose the shiny parts of my culture. Bindi; mehandi, lehenga; choli, rangoli; Holi and Om these are not just words, they mean the world to us. And that thing that you wear and call it a slave bracelet, its actually called a haath-phool which literally means hand-flower.
