Hiraeth (Hi-raeth)
(n.) A homesickness for a home which you cannot return; A home that is no longer and perhaps never was. A deep, wistful, nostalgic sense of longing for home.

It starts just after the sun begins to change its color. Like you, or everyone else like you, I gaze through the clear glasses of an 8th-floor office building. I can see small buildings, a multidimensional array of small buildings, a small dark and dusty road, smaller cars and people. Or I can only gaze at the murky sky ignoring all these small details? You are right, and you are now remembering your home which you left many years ago while looking at the sky. Looking at the vast openness of the sky, you may come across some smaller details about your home.

As the sun turns to the west, the shadows become crisp and long. During the autumn or winter, when the sun is somewhat forgivable, and you had unlimited time, you knew the shadows. A shadow from the old mango tree of your courtyard where you played around during your early days. That was the same shadow under which you did your first mischief, or the shadow at your balcony with the familiar pattern where you learned to walk with your trembling foot. I know when you have spent those afternoons at your solitary staircase, you can remember those patterns of shadows. A shadow through the long window of the staircase, through the grills of the balcony, through the leaves of that old mango tree, through the railings of the roof brings you the smell of your lost home.

A home comes with a pond. I know you can remember your pond for many reasons. You have spent many afternoons sitting beside the pond with pieces of green mangoes chatting with your siblings. You can remember the time with the fishing rod, not just for fish but to spend the afternoon in serenity.

You can sense the evening looking at the dimmed long shadows. Evening comes at long trees with blue-black colors. Evening comes in dark bushes. Evening comes inside the house. Evening comes on the old kerosene lamp. Evening comes at your pet trees. Evening comes on the disorderly bed-sheet on which you finished your siesta. Evening comes over the piled up dried coconuts. Evening comes to the tales of your grandmother. Evening comes over your dusty slippers. Evening comes on spider waves. Evening comes on ant trail. Evening comes over your drowsy face. Evening comes over you.

As the evening comes, the murky sky you are looking at becomes insignificant to you as you can only see the darkness. The streetlights are on. The buildings are enlightened. Your memories of home start fading from your mind. Or there is no memory of home?