A New Delhi flat that taught a nomad about home

Many mornings back in 2021, I’d wake up in a barren apartment in Delhi utterly disoriented: Where am I? Which country am I in? Which city? And how, exactly, did I end up here?

Home, as a concept, had eluded me throughout my life. I was accustomed to a degree of uncertainty and flexibility that would probably unnerve most well-adjusted people. But this tumultuous stretch had strained (and, I can see now with hindsight, surpassed) my limits.

A year earlier, I had been a correspondent in China for The Wall Street Journal heading into Wuhan to cover a mysterious virus. And since then, I had been through extended quarantines and ejected from the country as a pawn in a diplomatic spat. I got bedbugs in temporary housing in New York, settled in a new apartment in the West Village and then got word of a new posting: India, just as the latest variant of the coronavirus was about to upend the country.

For those first months in Delhi, with my possessions on a ship chugging across oceans, I slept on a mattress on the floor. I adapted a cardboard box into a dining table and desk. I pilfered my trashcans from my abandoned newsroom. I learned that chairs might be one of humanity’s greatest inventions as I lived without them, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

I also learned quickly that New Delhi may not be a place where one comes to find tranquility. But I could make a home for myself here. I had to. 

A Storage Unit

In Beijing, I had a tiny studio apartment that fit my needs perfectly. It was little more than a storage unit for my shoe collection with a bed in it. I traveled across China as much as I could for work, and when I was back, I’d spend my nights studiously sampling Beijing’s endless course of restaurants and bars. But I did lug over my favorite childhood books from my parents’ house. That was the surest signal of my intention to stick around. Then Covid hit. A high-level geopolitical pissing match ensued, and the Chinese government expelled a group of American journalists, including me. We had 10 days to leave. The circumstances were a whirlwind that took years to recover from. But in the moment, in the rush of clearing out my apartment, I realized I had lived like a hotel guest on an extended trip: I had practically no sentimental ties to the place that had been my home.

New York in New Delhi

My flat in Delhi was the 15th apartment I’d seen that day. It might have been the white brick walls, which reminded me of my former New York flat. Or the cozy rooms and party-ready terrace. The clincher was definitely the bathtub with a lovely view into the treetops. I don’t believe in love at first sight when it comes to romance, but I do with real estate.

A painting of St. George battling a dragon brings me back to a freezing afternoon at a Moscow market. A photo capturing traffic at a standstill in Los Angeles as people gawked at a retired space shuttle taking a farewell tour through the city was an instant reminder of the glamour and strangeness of the place where I lived in my 20s. The little painting of leopards in Zimbabwe takes me back to backpacking in Africa.

Now, I finally had the space to display it all. Hung together on the walls, they told the story of the life that had brought me to India.

As I started venturing out into this new place, I searched for pieces indelibly linked to where I bought them. During a holiday in Jodhpur, I found a stunning wooden door carved with steam trains crossing a bridge. After reporting in Odisha, I picked up a Pattachitra painting featuring scenes of Lord Krishna. A square of Chamba embroidery, stitched with courtiers smoking hookah, was snagged on a chilly walk in Shimla. I added them to my collection, and to the story unfolding on the walls around me. I could see the sense of dislocation fading, thanks to the places I explored, the people I met and the artwork I admired. I could see how this flat was becoming central to that story.