There is no place like home. Where is it?

PAST
On most days in Cincinnati, I could hear the calm, broken by small sounds that arrive one by one, each one waiting its turn to the ear, with no urgency. The soft not-so-distant whirr on summer Wednesdays would be Mr.Whitman’s lawn mower. On Thursday evenings it would most indisputably be, Ms. Eve’s from next door.

On summer evenings I could also hear the sprinklers showering gently on neighbourhood lawns, un-parching cracked veins under the apple trees. Children would squeal as they ran in and out of the sprinkler drizzle and only the occasional chime of the ice cream truck could get them away from the water theme park in their very front yards. On moonless nights, I often strolled along the streets watching stars or just sat in my backyard and sipped in cool lemon tea as the bejewelled skies revealed itself, one star at a time. And then I would hear Ms.Eve’s chime which hung out from the awning of her sunroom, and it would lullaby me to sleep.
In the wee hours of the morning, I would sometimes hear crackles of twig just under my upper storey bedroom window and I would tiptoe in a hurry to view deer reach up to the leaves of the magnolia tree.

I would sit for long hours watching, peering out from the dining room window and see the cars go by. Unfailing every season, the window set the stage and performers danced in and out. The same comforting interlude. Cincinnati taught me to breathe. One breath at a time, with no commotion. My house was by the Stop sign and every car stopped religiously at its altar. Some would roll as if out of obligation, the others would stop like their lives depended on it. The pause in between cars would give me adequate time to fix my cup of chamomile. And one by one, I would watch cars-big and small, rich and broke: trucks- trudging carriages of lawn care equipment or tree trimmings; and the occasional cyclist, go by.

I would not need to look at the clock, marking time with events unfolding instead. The mailman never failing to make his rounds across the streets just before noon. When he made it to my mailbox along his designated route, I knew that it was around 3:00 and the entourage of school buses would soon start. First the bus to drop off the kindergarteners would stop across the street, engines still purring on. It would blink its innumerable red lights and fold out its stop sign reminding any vehicle passing by to wait. The driver would only leave after each child was in his mother’s arms and waved goodbye back at the bus. The torrent of buses- preschool, primary, middle, high school- would continue for the next hour or so in periodic ebbs and flows. Clockwork.

And then there was the snow. Freezing the landscape. The small but sure footprints of deer, front and hind, after snow, would tell me how many came by the previous night. Some prints with shorter strides for babies following the mothers around. Some prints further apart with portions of snow gorged out around each impression for a deer that ran across in fear of a headlight, perhaps.

So on cold nights after I would shovel snow off the driveway, I would sometimes look around at the stillness with the only movement coming from smoking chimneys all along the street and the occasional breeze shaking snow off leafless branches. I would then draw down the garage door and retire inside and curl up in front of the fireplace with some hot chocolate. After locking up beautiful moments in a place in my heart, a place I knew not before that I had, I would make a pact of peace with the universe in gratitude and wonder what all the fighting is about.

PRESENT
Even from atop the 24th floor, I hear the noise of Singapore unceasing - layer upon layer of complex decibels wanting to be unpeeled. The sharpest clank coming from the construction site across the main entrance to my building- cranes splattering metal on metal. The unmistakable sound of drilling machines echoing from various construction sites is an integral part of the soundscape here. The screech of vehicles, braking suddenly rises from streets and lanes crisscrossing below. The screams of inspiration and instructions from tennis coaches thrown at young talents at the courts many feet below floats up to my balcony. The only respite from it all comes from dark clouds clapping loud thunder, a noise to drown out all hollers and cries.

The nights provide no escape. Motorbikes whiz through streets, simmering rich with activity as they pierce their way into my shallow slumber. I wake-up and look out the window but the night sky above provides no drama, staring blankly down accusing the city below of stealing the spotlight.

Every day-break, for just a while, there is a radiant veil of quite until the cycle starts again. The lift takes me down and I brave the street crossings. People splash around me purposefully, knowing exactly where they want to go. Soon I know, I will learn to get point to point, not trying to catch anyone’s eyes, not trying to greet them with Cincinnati’s customary “How are you?!” for I am begin to realize that faces are blank when they are lost in thoughts, plans and destinations. Brightly lit shops, peopled by eyes that want my attention, hawk their wares at me intrusively. No one else seems to mind.

I board the train after waiting behind the yellow line for just a few minutes, rubbing shoulders with strangers as I scramble to hold the only available strap hanging from the compartment roofs for balance, as announcements filter through- words in languages, known and unknown. I emerge from the train stations and rush onto the escalators that fasten my pace, unforgiving of my sloth, un-accepting of my desire to be a spectator as I walk. At first, frightful of the multitude of ways I could indulge my needs and pamper myself, I allow myself a foot massage and slurp some coconut water only just beginning to learn to ignore people around me. To find my sanctuary.

The warm air that thawed my bones when I got here from Cincinnati’s winter is beginning to embalm me and take me into its arms. Soon, I shall learn to rest to the rhythm of the clanking cranes, to the beat of the honking cars and then find myself in this sea of humanity. This hiss of the hoard below, alarming now from my balcony, will one day, I know, welcome me into comfortable anonymity. Not yet, but soon, I shall renew my pact of peace with the universe once again, for this too shall be home.