Homerun... all the way

Just today, I was walking through one of the streets of caluctta. Nothing special about the place... Just a normal locality with trees around. The humid air was filling my lungs. But it felt great. People were different, it was not my home town. But there was something familiar about this place. It was my country. It was my identity. It was the place i pay my taxes for. Seen and stayed in couple of places apart from my own country, but never did I feel one with the people. Never felt part of the country. But here even miles away from the language i know, I felt comfortable. the home country is like our home. The place where after wandering about all day, be it the best clubs, the best hill stations, the best chaffeur driven cars, the place where the soul rests and you would like to sleep - home. I dont need the double digit course of meal. Even after such an elaborate meal, what gives comfort is that fist sized curd rice and a piece of pickled mango. I love my home, I love my country. Might be sometime in future I am forced to stay outside my country, or for that matter even if I chose to stay out of my country, at this moment, right now am happy to be here. happy to be able to smell the damp air, see the red bangled women, those bengali speaking 'red painted' mouths of men, the oriya crowd who moved themselves for better oppurtunities. This is my country, this my final abode, this is my resting place. I may shiver in the chilling winter without clothes in the place I once visited, I may swelter in the humid hot day of my hometown, I may dehydrate in the merciless heat wave of the city i loath, I may get drenched in the unforgiving slashing rains of my favourite city, still its my country, its my final abode, its my resting place.