I am sitting in a room which used to be home for the last nine months. It is a room once again and I don't want it to be so. Stripped off everything that I had brought with me, thought to be mine, it is now the way I had found it nine months back. Impersonal. And yet, when I had stepped in on September 13, it had appeared welcoming. I had looked around and wondered how it would be to live here. I lived, loved, laughed, cried, hated and fretted here and now someone else will.

Everything is packed and waiting to be moved to yet another room somewhere. Yes, that room too shall be home for a few months. And then I shall leave that as well.

How many homes have I left behind me? How many more shall I leave? And will there come a time when they shall just be rooms and not homes anymore?