The airconditioning in the room was unreal. I was tucked inside a pristine white comforter and was eyeing all metal, cold surfaces with suspicion. I missed warmth. This place was busy, cold and not my home.
In that downer spirit, I wondered what exactly I missed.
Here’s a list.
I miss waking up before the sun rises, walking in a peacock infested park with the lady with a fierce red bindi on her forehead.
I miss my office’s insanely bad coffee machine and the resultant steam burns.
I miss being able to wake a lovely person up in chennai, every morning.
I miss being asked if I wanted to go get momos by a beautiful girl whom I miss but can’t find the incentive to call
I miss my TV. A lot.
I miss my bug of a car which can and will win the messiest car of the year award, should it somehow make its way to the venue without incident
I miss my mother.
I miss baking experimental cakes that people around me are nice enough to humour with a tasting.
What’s bothering me is, I miss all of them equally. Though, a cursory glance will tell you, mother is probably more important than momos. That’s how I miss Hyderabad. That’s how I miss home.