I am filled with the emptiness of a teen.
With my hands crossed behind my head, I am lying down on the floor.
It is gently pouring and the little drops hailing against the banana leaves is a pleasant sound.
I have my feet up the window sill with the curtains fluttering.
My room is dark and I can see the streetlight filtering through the tiny window.

All of a sudden, a familiar smell catches my attention.
Amma is making rasam! My stomach grumbles involuntarily.

Although I am lying here with my feet exposed to the cold breeze, I feel like I am there watching her grind the pepper.

I close my eyes and imagine her moving around the kitchen, asking me to stay out of the way.

I smile.

Rain and rasam had always been a tradition at home and this made me happy.

I open my eyes.

I wipe a tear off as I know I am a thousand miles away from home.