It is morning and the sharp whistle of the pressure cooker wakes me up. The smell of curry leaves, mustard seeds, onions and chillies being sautéed in ghee hits me a second later and I smile. I am home for the summer. 

I fall into routines as if I have never left. I sit at the dining table that has been in this house for three generations now, and shovel homemade poha into my mouth. The tanginess of the single squeeze of lemon teases my taste buds and I chew faster. I am greedy in my consumption, as if trying to tell myself that the faster I eat, the more I eat, the more I am able to ground myself in this present, this present which is so different from my other present, the one that isn’t in this country. 

Another day, I wake up early and head to Nehru Park. 

The heat is unbearable. I come from a country which also has tropical weather and two definitive seasons – rain and heat. And yet, this hits differently. Maybe it is the dust in the air. Maybe it is the angry heat of men’s stares as I walk around Nehru Park with my bra straps showing. Maybe it is just global warming. 

I do not know.

I sit on a bench and look at the uncles who play badminton. They are here every week, I am told, and they play badminton ferociously, as if their very lives depend on it. Except, their legs do not move. They have perfected the art of volleying the shuttlecock just so to each other so that at the very most, they have to slightly extend their arms to reach a more difficult shot. Mostly, they stew in the heat and convince themselves that they are having a great workout as they swing their arms ferociously to get the shuttlecocks across. I laugh at their lack of mobility with the arrogance of my youth. Briefly, I wonder what kind of sedentary old person I will be. I wonder what I will think of little bald girls who make fun of my immobility. 

I shrug, it does not matter right now. That is another life, not the one I’m currently in. 

I am lying on the bed. I have just had breakfast and my eyes are gritty, from the dust in the air or the lack of sleep, I am not sure. I stare out of the window and listen to the squeaking wheels of the vegetable seller’s cart as he rolls it up the little slope by the side of our block. I recognise these sounds instinctively, imprinted as they are in my muscle memory, though it has been some time since I have been back. 

I fall asleep staring at the grass-green leaves waving lightly in the wind, the rustling as familiar as a mother’s lullaby. 

It is time for Dadi’s evening walk around the compound. She is slow but determined, one of her better days today. Sometimes, she finds excuses to avoid her evening walk; it is like arguing with a stubborn mule. As we slowly circle the compound, she stops to greet her friends, who are on similar walks of their own with their little helpers. The elders commiserate about the weather and the increase in milk prices, while the little helpers stare awkwardly at each other and smile. I clear my throat after the third such interaction and stare pointedly at my watch, muttering about time. Naturally, my grandmother ignores me. One hour later, we finish our work. We have seen half the residents in the compound, and the sun has set. The cooler weather and darkening skies are a relief. As we walk down the corridor to our flat, the smell of fresh pakoras greet me. Kamala has arrived to make dinner for the evening. My stomach grumbles in response. 

It is the weekend and we are strolling around in Khan Market, the cousins and I. I babble on about my love for jewellery and how it is my kryptonite, how I look for baubles everywhere I go, how I come from such a middle-class background that gold will always be such a great investment for me because I can pawn it. I cannot quite read the expressions on the cousins’ faces -sometimes I see a flash of perplexity and I think to myself that no matter how much I try, I will never quite belong, because this is not my place, this is not my home. 

Because you see, I am not really from here. 

I do not know where I am really from. I mean, I was born in the other country, where my immediate family lives, but that is not where we are really from. That country is a country of migrants, of the poor and adventurous who arrived to look for a better future, a different future.

But we are not from there, you see. While I have my roots there, I am curious about my ancestors. About their lives, about the country where my mother’s tongue originates from. 

Which is why, today, I am here. Exploring, seeking. Meandering. Adopting my husband’s history to fill the giant cavity of my own. 

I wish there was a name for this ache, of wanting to belong to a place, of having such intractable relations with the earth that is immovable. Is there a name for this ache? Do you understand what I mean? 

I must go now. I am taking a flight to somewhere else today. Maybe that will reveal something new to me. Maybe it will not. 

We will find out. 

…

Over the years, Arathi Devandran has written for e-zines and publications on a range of issues, serving as a youth columnist, general observer of the human condition, and dissector of the specific experiences of being a South Asian woman in a patriarchal and parochial world. More recently, she has become interested in exploring themes of inter-generational familial relations and navigating the complexities of self-growth through personal essays and autofiction. Arathi is currently working on her full-length manuscript. Her work can be found here. 

Disclaimer: All opinions and views here are my own.