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The Gypsy Soul: Why We Are Forever Searching for Home

He wasn’t alone in
his first home,
his mother’s womb.
It was a shared space
with a twin brother.
When he died, alone,
after 70 days,
which one
became homeless?

At two-and-a-half years
he was cast away
from home
to a Montessori school,
he howled and cried—
a homeless child,
for a few hours,
every day.

The gypsy in him
left home and
comfort.
he blew away
his security bubble,
in search of a
career in a metropolis
by the sea

he felt forsaken
forlorn, hungry,
tired, lost,
it was a choice
homelessness

he had burnt bridges
he could not return to
his parents’ home.

Growth in career,
a rented space
shared with a new spouse.
After four years,
his karmabhoomi
became a new home

now, they had
two homes
they went to a home
and returned
to another home

they were
borderless.

The demise of
his father
made them return
to their hometown
girdled by two rivers
on three sides

But they lost a home
by the sea.

Later, they moved
from home to home
like a bee
choosing brighter
better flowers –

through hills and valleys,
rivers and seas,
plateaus and plains
they travelled,
vacationed
and worked,
leaving homes,
embracing homes.

They lived an eternity
in a moment,
and saw the universe
in a handful of stars

Finally,
his mate and he
built a new home –
they owned
a fistful of earth,
a slice of the sky

her illness
snatched her away
from him,
after nine years
into their haven.

The wheel had come
full circle.
With children
in a faraway place,
his home
became a house
and he,
a homeless,
once again

a living ghost
in an empty shell.

Frail health
and household chores
exhausted him
worried his children
they wanted him
with them.

Will it be
a clawed bit of earth,
a torn piece of sky?

Can he accept
a new home?
Can he stay alone?
Can he be
uprooted again?

A gypsy,
he is forever
homeless.

Picture design by Anumita Roy

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