India, Aug. 29 -- Homesickness is more than just a word; it's an emotion that quietly unsettles the soul when one is far from home, in unfamiliar land or among strangers. But what exactly triggers this feeling? Is it the physical structure we call home, the brick-and-mortar walls? Or is it the human presence, the warmth of loved ones, the everyday sounds and silences that create belonging? Or perhaps it's the little things: A familiar bed, the placement of furniture, the scent of a room, objects that lend a sense of comfort and security. Such existential dilemmas often lead me to think of Albert Camus' short story, The Guest. In the story, schoolmaster Daru lives alone on a remote plateau, a harsh, unforgiving landscape with unpredictable weather. Despite its challenges, this barren setting is the only place where Daru feels truly at home. Any place beyond its boundaries feels like exile. Camus subtly explores the idea that "home" may lie not in comfort, but in an elemental connection between self and space, no matter how inhospitable. I was on a connecting flight from Istanbul to New York. The first hour was a flurry of activity: Passengers stowing bags, adjusting seats, air crew bustling about with meal trolleys. There was nervousness in the air as the plane took off, then a temporary calm as food and drinks were served. Eventually, lights were dimmed, window shutters pulled down, an orchestrated attempt to replicate night and invite sleep. In that dim, suspended silence, a curious loneliness settled in. Surrounded by strangers in a sealed metal tube thousands of feet above the ground, I felt far removed from anything I could call home. It wasn't the distance alone, it was the sudden absence of everything familiar that brought the ache of homesickness to life. Suddenly, I longed for the warmth and familiarity of my own bed, nestled in the gentle, rhythmic sounds of my family's breathing and soft snores, the subtle rustle of my bedsheets, and the quiet presence of familiar furniture that offered a sense of belonging. My room's comforting scent, the small but significant details that defined home, all seemed impossibly distant now. Unable to sleep, I gazed around the dimly lit cabin, observing passengers in various states of uneasy slumber - some with mouths wide open, limbs sprawled awkwardly, while others stirred anxiously with each sudden jolt from the turbulence. The scene felt oddly surreal, like a still from an apocalyptic film. In that confined space, the ache for home deepened, reminding me how much we long for the familiar when surrounded by the unfamiliar. The long, serpentine queues at the immigration counters after landing at JFK felt painfully endless. As I stood there, inching forward step by step, the exhaustion of the journey weighed heavily on me, and I couldn't help but question my choice to leave behind the cosy comfort of home. Once cleared, I hastily grabbed my bags from the conveyor belt and made my way to the exit, my body aching and my mind clouded with fatigue. But the moment I stepped out, everything shifted. A familiar face emerged from the crowd, arms outstretched. One warm embrace was all it took to melt away the tension that had gripped me for hours. In that instant, the discomfort, the homesickness, the doubts - all gave way to a deep sense of relief. I had arrived home, away from home....