My rooftop in Kensington directly faces the sea, the city, and the sun. There is a single moment before the sun sets, where the sky blazes a saturated pink. Soft blues and purple hues blend into an endless haze before the lights turn off. A fleeting blink and you might miss the moment entirely. Yet, when I close my eyes, I am almost transported back to the moment. When I feel distanced from the younger versions of myself, the many places I have called home (from familiarity, or loved ones) there is a certain comfort in staring at a sky, which, despite its daily configurations, dutifully drains of colour before being washed anew.
In Colombo, the sun was always an obliging extra to my childhood; spanning wind, waves, and a certain carelessness that I miss. There was a sense of security amid tsunamis of change, threats of bombs, and a house that was literally ensnared by snakes. We could not hold on to our turtles for long, before nature reminded us she was truly in charge. During my first sleepover, my friend went to sleep with her parents in the night, and as I knocked on her parents door to ask about her whereabouts, her mum sleepily replied, “Alice is sleeping with us.” I remember feeling a sense of peace, despite being young and out of home. I signed up for talent shows, sporting the flashiest colours without a care in the world, shamelessly tasting every tea at the Dilmah Tea Factory without paying a cent. It’s funny how quickly the self-consciousness of adulthood then set in.
Sometimes, I take myself out for a surf to be sloshed, beaten, and punched by sun-streaked waves, until my head feels light and my lips crack. There is occasionally a moment, while being tossed like a rag in a high-speed washer, where I teleport to the time I almost drowned on a donut boat in an ocean I cannot name. Upon witnessing dolphins gliding across dancing waves in Bondi, I am taken back to a trip in the Bahamas where I kissed a dolphin, and I can almost feel its skin. Sydney’s winding, inclined paths remind me that you can only see so far ahead until a new adventure calls.
Hyderabad, my paper home, had the most beautiful rocks that stood so resolute that they upstaged their impressionist background. The sun was everywhere, all of a sudden boiling, making my skin itch and feet burn. Irani samosas (pastries filled with spicy onions), biryani bonding sessions with my mum, and the unwavering strength of the land, despite being treated as an afterthought by many. I learned more about people and friendships, and lost myself to books every bus ride back home. My heritage from the North met my lived experience in the South to create a strange but priceless liminal space. The vibrancy of festivals like Holi and Diwali, and the generosity of entire communities embedded in the culture made me feel part of a larger, living whole.
With the whirlwind of teenage years came a modernity, ease, and ambition that only a place like Singapore could have instilled within me. It was a schooling not just in futuristic design, architecture, and seamless services, but the pressure we sometimes put on ourselves to attain ideals. I had never seen such a large, shiny school with an emphasis on service and unity, celebrating differences: where my individuality was a strength, not a stigma. The size of the art studios brought back my childhood glee instantaneously. I learned about clubbing, gel nails, and Sylvia Plath — all of which I realised were not my cup of tea.
The first day, as we were floating in the air above Victoria, I felt a deep pit in my stomach. The dense-lit petri dish of Singapore at night was replaced by darkness from the sky. I had no sundial. This was not part of the plan, but Melbourne seemed to understand me, and with the shedding of fall leaves, so did my idealised university experience. The hot chocolate at Castros, with a hint of cinnamon, luxury vanilla slices and sunrises were like none I had ever seen. The sun was large and bright, and seemed to race me to rise earlier, insistent that each day enclosed another opportunity to embrace unfamiliarity.
Frankly, Sydney wasn’t on the cards for me either. In truth, I was dreaming of other places. Despite having doors open to other dreams, I decided to stay for reasons I am yet to discover. I was in love with the idea of love, and found myself in many self-confrontations. My entire life seems to have been in pursuit of a narrative that fits. A ‘globetrotter’, ‘traveller’, ‘world citizen’. The more I see of the world, the more I feel that no place defines me. No matter where I yearn to go, or where I have been, my identity is not bound by my context. Whether in ten years time, my time in Australia ‘makes sense’ to fit my life’s narrative or not, I have stopped trying to connect the dots and let the story find me as it has done thus far.
I once asked someone in Bogotá, who had lived across many places, which one they loved most. They said it was impossible to choose, because in each, they had been a different version of themselves. Maybe that’s what flags really are. Not just borders, not just allegiances, but markers of who we once were, are becoming, and all the in-between spaces where we find ourselves suspended, waiting.
