Seven years ago today, I was in London, saying goodbye to the hotel room I was staying in. It was the end of a brief, two week period during which I had crisscrossed the whole city by the Tube, the train, the buses and walked ten thousand steps on average every day in search of a room. A room of my own in the city I was now going to call home.  In those two weeks, I saw rooms, halls and pigeonholes and met would-be flatmates, landlords and dealers, carefully evaluating the pros and cons of each place and individual before stumbling upon a place I liked immediately upon entering. It was a two-room duplex in which I was offered the lower floor. I still remember the light from the window, streaming in softly like a greeting, welcoming me in.

Seven years ago today, I was in London, strolling in Hyde Park. My hotel was just across the road and as I was supposed to shift to that new place around 2pm, I had the whole morning free. An early riser, I had already packed my bags, had breakfast at the nearby Sheila’s cafe (my regular haunt those days because the hotel food was too expensive), and was wondering why they call it spring when it is still so cold. (Funny that I don’t remember my big hotel’s name but of that little street-side cafe. Hmm.)

Seven years ago today, I was in London, thinking about the life I had left behind in Delhi and anxious about the one I had to build in this new city. Apart from an official contact, I knew no one there. The future felt like a big, blank unknown. It was a beautiful April morning to be in the park. Children were playing, flowers were blooming, and a soft breeze formed ripples on the surface of the water bodies. People around me looked content, settled in their lives, the opposite of what I was feeling...uprooted and hoping to find some new ground.

Seven years later today, I am in Delhi, going through some photos from that day that an app brought to the surface of time. Recuperating at home, I have recently been discharged from a week-long stay at the hospital. It has been a bright and hot April day. The night is comparatively pleasant. From another room in the house, I hear my wife wrapping up her day’s meetings. My two-year-old has just finished his evening nap and now wants me to play with him. I have asked for ten minutes from him, though I do not think he understands the notion yet and will be back soon. I am still thinking about that day, that London year, and cannot shake the feeling as if all of that was crucial for me to reach where I have, that life was somehow preparing me for the things to come.

Seven years later today, I am here, sitting in my room, alone but not alone. The very opposite of what I was feeling that day seven years ago, rooted and at home.