We spend so much time waiting for the next ‘big’ thing that we forget that most of life is made up of ordinary Tuesdays.

As someone who is physically incapable of sitting still, I constantly look forward to the exciting, busy days. But in doing so, sometimes I forget to appreciate the charm of the banal, prosaic days.

A sunny side up with orange juice in the morning, maybe with a little garlic buttered bread on the side, and Modern Family running on our TV.
Soft, fresh rotis in the afternoon for lunch with chilled, frothy buttermilk; everyone gathered around the table, passing the onions along with unsolicited advice and debating over politics and what to make for dinner.
And in the evenings, music – the drawl of the harmonium, some old Bollywood songs in the background, and the constant hum of chatter and playful arguments. Notebooks and books scattered on the dining table, and a faint blotch where someone tried to erase an ink stain from the tablecloth.

These slow, humdrum days rarely feel significant when they’re happening. No photographs are taken, no cakes cut. They simply arrive and leave.

Yet every time I think of home, this is what I remember first.