Rooted in two soils

WHAT is home? It is a question that has been with me for as long as I can remember, a quiet echo that grows louder each time I try to answer it.

- VERNIKA AWAL

As a child who moved between cities, I learnt early that walls change, windows open to new skies, and streets never quite belong to you for long. I have wondered if home is ever really a place, or if it is the people who give a place its pulse, who turn its air familiar, who make you feel safe. I still do not know.

I have carried this question into countless conversations, not to satisfy curiosity alone, but to see how others name it for themselves. Their answers are often like little maps-some drawn in sharp lines, others blurred with memory.

One evening, at a gathering swollen with noise, I found myself seeking quiet.

The music, the chatter, the silver chime of glasses-it all receded as I stepped into a corner where the air felt still. A petite woman was already there, her posture composed, as though she too had decided to let the noise pass her by. We began to speak, and, as I so often do, I found myself asking her the question that has followed me for years.