Sitting on the rooftop water tank of this house, I used to scribble escape plans in my diary, dreaming of the solo adventures I’d embark on once I got out. Little did I know that once you leave, you never truly come back. My mom and dad built this house. Though it was far from where we lived at the time, they visited the construction site every evening after work. My brother and I would join them on weekends. For us, those days were like picnics—playing on hills of sand, building forts from bricks, splashing in “lakes” made from water tanks, all while singing, “Bob the Builder, can we fix it?” Some days, we’d return home covered in mud and sporting bruises, satisfied that we had “helped” the workers. My dad didn’t just oversee the construction—he truly built this house. As a scientist, he experimented with materials to ensure the most sustainable outcomes. To me, every brick has “Dad” written on it. I’m convinced if I threw one into water, it would float. Dad is my Ram. He lives in eve...
Indulge in solitude and travel - a mix of them is even better.