The narrator reflects on the loss of home as a physical, emotional and existential rupture.
Familiar spaces no longer offer safety, rest or identity.
The image of rebuilding “on bones” and a home that is “salty” rather than sweet suggests a harsh but enduring sense of belonging.
DAY 1:
Home, sweet home. Sweet. Home. Home. A gust of breath escapes me when I say home. The breath that lived in my mouth for eight years. Now it has left me, seeking homes in other bodies. Other mouths. My home isn’t sweet anymore. Without that breath, this is a roof that doesn’t protect, these are walls that don’t stand, this floor that sinks into forgotten graves, cannot hold feet. Where do I sit? Where do I stand? My head cannot rest. My eyes cannot shut. My home isn’t sweet anymore.
Home has left me. Sweet has left me. I have left myself. Who am I without my home, I ask. And the question boomerangs on me: Who are you without your home? What happens when there’s no place to come back to? Whose children are we when we are homeless?
Day 2
Father tells Mother we must leave for another’s land. There, we might discover a new space, which could become home, he says. It could become home if we stay alive. If we manage to steer clear of the armies that don’t like homes. Or families. Or countries. They like only territories. Terrror tories. Terror stories. The terrors they inflict can be broken into stories, shredded and sliced like rotting fruit. Let’s flee and find another home, he says.
Mother says we will stay. Though home has left us. Though this is a roof that isn’t a ROOF
These are WALL Sthat don’t stand
This floor SINKS
We will stay, she says. From these sinking floors, will arise a new home. No bricks or cement. No concrete either. We will build on bones. Bones, bones, bones. They shall not break, nor sink, nor crumble. We will build on bones that will grow into strong bodies, from which will arise a new home.
Day 4
Mother says homes don’t have to be sweet either. Built on bones, they can be salty, like the Black Sea. Or the Red Sea. I have been to the sea. I have bathed in its waters, stung my eyes. And so I know what salt tastes like. I think I’d like to live in a home that tastes like that… salty, sturdy, solitary like a lone wave that refuses to reach the shore and stays aloof.
What about walls, Mother? I ask. She says,
Walls made of stone don’t listen.
And between them, this lost city’s ears hide,
seeking a voice—Did someone say something?
Was there a cry? A fading tune? A prayer?
Silence.
Walls made of stone don’t listen.
Let’s build them with skin. You’re too young, child.
We will use mine. It has seen the world. Tough, taut, hard.
Then the voices will sing. The song will be heard. The words, spoken.
Then, the walls will listen. This lost city’s ears will find what they seek.
Day 5
And so, we build a new home. Its floor won’t sink…it shall be laid on bones and new words, words stripped of treaties and promises, of speeches and declarations. The floor shall be laid on truths. Ours. On what we have endured and lived through. Suffering and survival.
This is where I shall be born again. I shall see my mother giving birth to me. A pink infant wrapped in old cloth. Father will stand by her side. He will be neither happy nor sad. He will take me from my mother and say thanks to the Almighty. The child is healthy, he will say. Our child.
This home will be our new country. I shall grow up as the youngest citizen of this life-giving territory. Everyone is welcome to be born here. Its soil is nourishing enough for a country of newborn citizens, where we shall know no hunger, no murder or bloodshed. The red you shall see here will be the vermilion of a passionate sun warming us all against harsh winters. Women shall walk boldly on streets straight as their spines, heads up, eyes bright. They shall fear no men. No soldiers. No one. The weak will be strong. And the strong stronger.
A Country for Newborns
When a country is made of newborns
a world is born.
A world where words will live and breathe freely,
where you can see the horizon clearly,
where butterflies live long, sparkle quite fiercely.
When a country is made of newborns,
nobody dies in fear. Nor will there be an unnoticed tear.
Death will not arrive by force. It will not knock on frozen doors.
When a country is made for newborns,
a world is born where we will live freely.
Our truths will clothe and guide us,
where we will live all over again
all those days we lost while we were trying to live.
We will live our lives all over again
and redeem the days we lost while we were trying to breathe.
Day 6
So step foot into this brave new territory, this blessed land, this soil where I stand. Here, I shall grow into a strong adult. I shall work hard and provide for my family. I will take care of my people. I shall fill the wrinkles on my mother’s face with love and compassion. I shall take her tired hands and walk with her to the shores of our sea. We shall watch the sun rise and the moon set.
I shall see myself fall in love. I will see my mother watch what she never thought she would see—her child marrying and having children. More newborns for a country free from fears.
Day 7
Today is the tomorrow I dreamt of yesterday. Today I’m fearless. In my dream for a new home built on truths, bold skins, bones, my mother’s words and hopes, I have found myself. I have found my lost self in the home we are yet to build. The breath that escaped has returned. Home will be home again. Home will be sweet again. Home, sweet home.
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This article appeared as 'Diary Of A Homeless Child' in Outlook’s 30th anniversary double issue ‘Party is Elsewhere’ dated January 21st, 2025, which explores the subject of imagined spaces as tools of resistance and politics.
Anupama Raju is a poet, novelist and translator. She is the author of Nine, C: A Novel and Bitter Gourd
