There’s a strange intimacy in sound – the kind that slips into your memory seemingly inconspicuously, until you hear it again and your chest tightens with what might be nostalgia.

For me, home isn’t just a place. It’s a playlist of sounds on loop.

It’s the sharp whistle of a pressure cooker from the kitchen, three short bursts that echo through sleepy afternoons. It’s the hum of the ceiling fan above my head, the rhythmic hum almost like a quiet song that has lulled me to sleep since I was a child (where I live, the pollution obscures the stars, so we have to settle for staring at ceiling fans instead!).

It’s the clink of bangles as my grandmother bedecks herself in ornaments for the Tuesday kirtans, or the gentle whoosh of my mom’s satin sarees as she gets ready for work.

Home is the creak of the kitchen door at midnight as my brother creeps into the kitchen for bread and Nutella – it’s him laughing unreservedly and unabashedly at the terrible jokes in his favourite series. It’s the long ringtone of someone’s forsaken alarm as it rings in the other room, still going off because everyone’s too lazy to pick it up.

But most of all, it’s the voices – not dramatic or maudlin, just the plain sound of chatter:

“Where are my glasses?”
“Tell me if you need anything.”
“Come sit with me for a bit.”
“Don’t go to sleep angry.”

The chaos of overlapping, fervent voices as six people talk over each other, or the congenial silence as we all crowd into one room to watch a film – all of these are my definition of home.

Because memories may fade… but sounds never do.

Yours truly,
Divi