Where is home?

"Go home".

Two words. Despair.

"You don't belong here".

I was born here. London Town.

Home to the hipsters and the punks and the rockers and the royals. Home to people from all over the world* (when the narrative benefits).

The land from which my ancestors descend was robbed, torn, and divided by colonial rule.

My parents grew up in Pakistan. A country that achieved independence in 1947. Courtesy of the British Empire. Growing up there is now a distant memory for mum and dad. I don't know it.

I grew up with my grandmother telling me stories of fields of grains and opium. The farmland where she grew up, India. Another familiar stranger.

The people there do not recognise me. I don't know how to build that bridge.

No home truly claims me as their own.

Will I be a traveller forevermore?