It was a long line that was slowly inching forward. I felt tired, hungry, and a bit anxious. Men in uniforms and positions of authority intimidate me. When the immigration officer asked for the purpose of our visit, I replied, "We are going home."

The word 'home' is one I instinctively use to describe the place and country I have been living in for less than eight months, which is only about 2% of my lifetime. It's not just the word choice; I started to miss 'home' after being away for just three days. It's ironic considering that I don't speak the language of my 'home' and spend hours in the kitchen trying to recreate the flavors from 'back' home. After years of exclusively watching English movies and TV shows, I've started to watch Hindi films just to feel a connection to the country I left behind. I turn around to look at the person whenever I hear a familiar accent, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone who might share my sense of nostalgia. My favorite spot in the public park is under the tree that almost looks like the one in my old school.

Honestly, I don't know what defines home for me anymore. Is it where I currently live or where I grew up and have family? Is it the land that holds memories of the past, or the one where I am creating memories for the future? No matter which side of the ocean I'm on, I'm always missing home.

Perhaps this is the expat lifestyle—the peculiar luxury of missing home even while you are at home!