My nose is confused. Gone are the stark and buttery smells of turmeric and dill that floated up from the kitchen, the comforting Downy fabric softener, the incense that was lit every evening, the leather couches. Instead, the hallways smell like bleach and bug spray, the air in the bathrooms is tainted with a dozen girls’ shampoos, and the convenience store is musty with the sharp smell of body odor.
My eyes are confused. They miss the way the floors shone after being freshly Swiffered, the pastel yellow and pink walls, the bare patch of ground where our basketball hoop used to sit, the one broken blind that always fell down every time we opened the patio door, and the red-and-orange tinted tomatoes in the backyard. They don’t understand the clear Samuel Adams cups strewn on the lawns after parties, the cobwebs that stick in the corners of the soap-green stairs, the cracked window that looks out over the quad, and the harsh edges of the library’s silver geometry. The purplish-brown shutters that framed the windows like eyelashes have been replaced with worn brick and mortar kissed by ivy, and the wicker furniture with the lime seat cushions has transformed into the hard, wooden benches that sit outside the residential colleges.
My ears are confused. The dinner table no longer shakes and the glass no longer squeaks as my mom scrubbed it with 409, the heavy lid of the piano doesn’t shut with a soft thump, the laundry machine doesn’t chug-chug away at night as my dad dumps in the final load, and the air fails to whistle through the vents in my room. Instead, bicycle bells ping, table tennis balls ricochet lightly off the tables in the campus center, the faint chants of “Chug! Chug!” echo up through the staircases, and forks clang as they drop into the bin marked “Silverware.”
My tongue is confused. What had happened to the hilsa fish curry flavored with a thousand spices, the softness of the long-grain rice, the sourness of lemon juice that I squeezed carefully over my dinner, the way that my mom’s chocolate chip pancakes melted on my tongue? My tongue grudgingly accepts the saucy ravioli, the salt in the hot dogs, the grease of a million curly fries, and the tastelessness of the boiled vegetables.
My fingers are confused. They search my bed sheets for the way my comforter felt like a cloud, the silkiness of the translucent curtains as they swung shut, the cool steel of the refrigerator handles, the carvings in the soft wooden legs of the dining table, the smooth, slightly chill porcelain of the bathroom sink in the mornings, the gentle softness of the worn-out, maroon hand towels. They recoil at the foreignness of the heavy metal door handles and stair rails, the creamy fragility of not-quite-new textbook pages, the stickiness of the window panes as the humidity seeps in, and the rough scratchiness of brown paper towels.
I know that I will get over it soon because everyone does eventually. I know that soon the brown paper towels will no longer feel scratchy, and I’ll gradually grow accustomed to the slipperiness of the steps and the lack of air-conditioning. However, no matter how much I try to tell myself that this is my new home, my senses point me homewards. They are a constant reminder that I have a past somewhere else, and that deep down, I’ll always be missing home.
