Always, the image remains: the water table, the rice stalks, blue sky, the taste of sweat on my tongue and the sting of sweat in my eyes were all I knew. The wooden hut with the roaring fire, which coexisted with the slab of chilling ice. Curiously enough, I could never imagine life without these two opposing poles. Now I'm starting to, as I trod through the veil of water that is the monsoon in some distant country, some faraway land, someplace miles away from the paddy water, the water that bustled with life like the terrifying leeches, the harmless diving beetles and the multitudes of many-hued dragonflies that skirted the water during May, putting on a display for the eyes. As I sink my muzzle into the gradually wetter soil, I think of what home really is.