I have homes in two different countries. With every passing day, I feel a sense of longing for my forsaken home in America – the warm and fuzzy familiar cottage-like house, the wooden deck and the picturesque hills, the smell of homemade vanilla muffins and mouth-watering spices wafting from the dimly lit kitchen, the comfort of my parents’ bed, and the serene drives to and from La Jolla through unpolluted air and unimposing sunlight. Yet I chose this new home, and I enjoy the close-knit community, the bright green grass and carefully arranged plants, the tall brick buildings coated with intricate white designs, the cool evening breeze and the excited chatter of youthful and vibrant students and faculty. Yet somehow, I have not truly moved here. A rather large piece of me still belongs back at my first home, and clings onto the contextual identity that I have fostered for over eighteen years. I am not a native Indian, and yet I am still not a true resident of the United States. I am straddling two different homes, and at the moment, both feel equally distant.

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