Once upon a time there was home
Given the insubstantial time I spent in Jammu, I am perhaps an interloper to comment on the overnight change in its status, from ‘special’ to one half of a Union Territory. But given it is the city of my ancestors, I retain a right to mourn a sense of loss.
Can every house become home? Or do places stop mattering beyond a certain age? As we moved place to place in childhood, staying two years at most in the small towns that father was posted to, home took shape for me mostly as a collage of memories. And memories knew no geographical boundaries, no language barriers, no son-of-the-soil whiff.
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