It was a funny bell. As soon as you pressed it, devotional songs would echo throughout the house and everybody who visited our house would have a questioning look on their face when they heard it. I would laugh at their expressions because the maid would come running in as soon as she heard the devotional song. Yes, it was the maid call.
Nine of us would sit on one bed, not caring whether it would break. We would be sprawled on top of each other, while my cousin would make random jokes and we would all laugh until our stomachs hurt. Right next to the bed on the floor, there would be a session of gambling for the adults. They would sit there with straight faces, staring intently at their cards, and the only thought that would be running through their heads would be, “Crap! I bet a 1000 rupees for this game! I better win it!”
And how can I forget the days it rained? The power would go out and I would rush to sit in the verandah on the wooden swing, air condition deprived. The windows would be open and the muddy smell would waft inside, along with the mosquitoes.
It was during these evenings that my cousin, my sisters and I would go for the road side pani puri. It would be made under the most unsanitary conditions possible, but I would love it just the same. I was amazed at how efficient he was, dipping, cooking, cutting, all with just a simple flick of a hand. And when I put the filled puri in my mouth for the first time after years, I practically had tears in my eyes.
Of course, there was the ‘davat’, as my sister funnily calls it. Where we danced, ate, laughed and enjoyed ourselves like there was no tomorrow. The dance floor was conveniently set in front of the dining area, where we could digest our meal by doing the ‘teen maar’ on the foggy floor. It bought a smile to my face when even my grandfather and grandmother joined.
And of course, the first day first show movies which all of us would scramble to see, even though they ended up being the worst movies ever. It was just for the screaming of the fans and the delicious samosas, that I would rush to the theater.
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I woke up and I was back in my comfortable bed, while the alarm was ringing on my cell phone. No, it wasn’t a dream.
I was back to the place where I left. I woke up and, mechanically, I went through the daily motions. Combing my hair, brushing my teeth, putting things in my backpack and starting the car. It was the same meticulous roads that I drove through, the same places that I took turns at and the same place that I parked for the past three years.
I stepped out and I took a deep breath. It was the smell of independence and self-reliance. Yes, I was back to having a constant supply of power, of having to do household chores myself and of having to live my own life.
This is where my friends were and as I was walking through the university again, I smiled at the places where we wasted time in between classes or spent hours and hours doing studying for finals.
There were the trips to new york, where we would waste an entire day roaming around the city and shopping at random stores, waiting for the Jon Stewart taping to start. It was a long wait, but even the wait in the lines would be fun because of the comments that would make us burst out laughing while everybody stared at us as if we were completely insane.
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I cannot say that I ‘came back home’ when I came back to America. Nor can I say that I ‘went home’ when I went to India.
Both are a part of me… My two worlds…
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I don’t feel like writing a poem to express what I’m feeling nor do I want to write an abstract piece where nobody knows what the heck I’m talking bout. I don’t want to ponder about the wonders of life nor do I want to delve deep into figuring out what an experience is supposed to teach me. 
I began it, because I thought that was what I wanted.