The last time I was here, I wasn’t. I say that because I didn’t feel like myself. I felt heavy, and heavy is the lightest word I can use to describe how I felt when I sat in a flight as the city disappeared behind the clouds. It was morning then, and the town greeted me with a sunset when I came back. In a way, it was a really long day. It felt like that, at least. A very long and fulfilling day between when I left the city and when I came back. Since then, I’ve gotten a hold of myself, and what I want to do. Since then, I’ve also learned to love again. As I said, it was a long day and yet, nothing changed. As I sit at the airport ready to leave, I have in my head the understanding that Dehradun still isn’t home although I don’t hate the city now. It is a good city, obviously imperfect like all of us. Home, however, is not in one place. It’s scattered all around the globe. It’s in the people we meet and the people we grow with. It’s in the cafés we miss sitting in, and it’s in the cafés that aren’t there anymore. It’s in the memories. Home is in pieces, spread all over in this very connected world. I leave the city with the important understanding that while my roots are important, the fixation on them is unfounded. After all, what good are strong roots if the tree fails to grow higher?