Brown noise?
I’m penning down these thoughts while lying on my bed, having returned home after a few years. I suddenly find myself wondering — what is home? Having traveled and moved a lot, home is no longer found in walls, beds, and cupboards. Home is the familiar noise that embraces me and welcomes me as if I never left.
It is the faint sound of traffic I hear when I’m standing on my terrace, the wind blowing through my hair. That noise never stops. It is the muffled sound of kids playing, shouting with joy, and brimming with energy. It is the sound of a cooker’s whistle blowing in one house and the sound of prayer in my neighbor’s house, both blending seamlessly somehow.
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It is the sound of the television I hear in my room, and I just know it’s my dad watching the news. I hear dogs barking — perhaps a new dog is trying to enter their territory. And as I close my eyes, I can hear all these sounds merging in harmony.
This, to me, is a lullaby. This is what I grew up around, and this is home.
