Where Does Home Live?

Saras

My brother and I are quite different from each other. Now I think that we were growing up to complement each other. He is what I’m not, and the other way around. In some ways, we are exactly alike. Like two tributaries that merge into a single river, we have been growing into each other. There are parents that we share and a whole body of childhood that we remember differently and similarly. No therapy can help us see ourselves the way the other person can.

When bhaiya left home, I was in Class VII. For almost 18 years, we have been nurturing a long-distance relationship. Every Rakshabandhan, he showed up in my college city. I remember seeing him off at bus stands, railway stations, airports, or in a car. We leave by all means. But we gather again.

He is my default support. Once we left home, we went our different ways. But then, we found the same river. We are both writers of some sort. He is more methodical, process-oriented, and writes for the screen. I’m more poetic; my words are gifts from nowhere.

In this piece, he writes about the idea of home and our recent homegoing. I try not to mind that he compares Ira to his cats or calls her a human baby!

In the last week of June, my wife, Shivangi, and I went home. By home, I mean Sheopur, a small town in MP where my father is currently posted. Shivangi would probably not refer to Sheopur as home. She calls Pune her home, since that’s where she spent her childhood and that’s where her family lives. By that logic, I call Gwalior my home. So, there is a home where you have grown up, where your house is, and then there is home wherever your family, your parents, live.

We live in Mumbai, with two adorable cats, Cuto and Rumi. And we call our rented apartment our home. My father frowns upon this idea. He frowns upon the city. Ever since I moved to Mumbai (ten years ago), he has been reminding me that this city wasn’t and couldn’t possibly be my home. That life in Mumbai is too fast, and the people don’t have time for each other.

Anyway, we were going to Sheopur because my sister, Shraddha, her husband, Vinayak, and their tiny daughter, Ira, were visiting, and it was a great opportunity for a family get-together. Especially to witness another phase of Ira’s life, who is growing rapidly at the moment. My sister lives in Delhi, Noida to be specific. Her sense of home is probably a bit different. She might write her own post about it.

The anticipation of the trip grew as the day to leave came closer. Travel makes me anxious. I find a sense of stability in the regular rhythm of life. Travel breaks it. And it’s not just the time that’s lost while travelling. It’s also the anticipation before going and the time it takes to get back into the rhythm when you come back. Hence, for a long time, I used to get cranky about travelling. Now, I’ve somewhat accepted it as life.

Rumi

The moment we started planning for Sheopur, I began to feel bad for the time Cuto and Rumi would spend alone. Even though our didi (house help) would spend the days, and a friend in the neighbourhood would occasionally check on them at night, it wouldn’t be the same. They were going to miss me. Or the things I do for them. Cuto was going to miss his midnight walks. Rumi was going to miss sleeping on my lap during our movie nights. To make matters worse, Cuto ate a piece of cotton string a couple of days before our departure. Our vet recommended a laxative. She assured us that a cotton string should pass through his system without causing harm. So we monitored his shits until we left. We never spotted a string, but took comfort from the fact that he was eating and behaving quite normally.

Rumi enjoying a film screening

We boarded our night train to Sawai Madhopur. At midday the next day, Papa’s car picked us up from Sawai Madhopur station and delivered us to Sheopur. Incidentally, the last time he was posted in Sheopur was during the COVID pandemic. My sister and I spent the core of the lockdown phase here. Despite our reservations, it had proved to be an easy and transformative time. So, there was some nostalgia about being back in Sheopur, this time with our respective spouses and a baby.

We were so productive in the quiet quarter of the quiet town. I read tens of books, wrote fifty thousand words on a fiction I was working on, completed tens of courses, and lost ten kg of weight while running for ten kilometres almost everyday.

Our family dynamic has somewhat shifted in the last couple of years. There was a time not too long ago when we were regularly fighting with the parents as they tried to get us married to the first person they came across or the next. Then my sister and I got lucky in our respective dating encounters, and we both got married within three months of each other. Now, it seems as if that unpleasant phase never came. Now that we are married, we are stronger entities, with our bedrooms that can’t be breached without caution. Our privacy feels sacred. I find it quite amusing.

Ira was a little unwell when we reached Sheopur, so we were all concerned. But even as she recovered, she let us play with her and enjoy her cute antics. She was the star of the house. Her meals and naps were significant events. My sister tracked them obsessively. She would appear downstairs with Ira fresh out of a nap, ready to babble and cackle and scream. She would flash smiles at strangers, making them feel special. I talked to her as I talk to my cats, matching her sounds, pitch, and tone, desperately trying to make her believe that not only do I understand her, but also agree with her on every matter.

Entertaining Ira

When she couldn’t take her naps, she was cranky. She would make sad faces, threatening to launch into passionate crying. Over the course of the trip, I learned many ways to engage and distract her. She liked being carried around, seeing new sights, hearing new sounds. She liked touching things and eating them. She liked listening to songs on the SaReGaMa Caravan. When none of this worked, it was time for her to perch on my shoulders. With her fists grabbing my hair, Ratatouille-style, she giggled, pleased with her high throne.

Around Ira, we found windows to have our adult conversations. There was a variety of coffee-making equipment available to meet our caffeine needs. On one of the days, we took a trip to the Kuno National Park. There were important and official exchanges with Papa and more frivolous conversations amongst the rest of us. But even in all this, Ira dominated the chatter.

One of the brewing methods. When I asked bhaiya where he bought this moka pot from, he informed me that I had gifted it to him.

We all left on the same day. My sister and her contingent went to Noida in the morning. As they were leaving, Ira smiled at the many faces saying goodbye to her. We all got emotional watching the little child, who had been such a lively presence in the house the last few days, leave. While the parents busied themselves with the most immediate thing to avoid tears, I went with my wife to our room to let them out.

While Shivangi was going back to Mumbai, I was to take a detour to Bhopal. More on that in a bit. So, Shivangi went early in the evening, and I had a few hours before my train at night. I had been wondering over the last few days whether I had spent enough time with the parents on this trip. So, that’s what I did in those hours.

When I sit with the parents to talk, it’s mostly Papa telling an old story we have heard many times or listing investments he is proud of. Or it’s me lecturing them with my new, burning liberal ideas. Flaunting how evolved I am. Lately, I am trying to keep my higher wisdom to myself. Once in a while, we stumble upon perfect harmony. When he is not shutting mom down. There is banter and gossip and laughter. It’s nice, and it’s rare. And I feel I can be friends with them in that moment. It happened this time.

In the end, as I left, waving at them from the car, I felt that pang of separation again, for the second time that day. It was the sadness of separation, but also the realisation that it was much sadder for those left behind. They have to face the empty rooms left behind. The voices are snuffed out. They are left with just the memories. Some of them on their mobile screens, alongside whatever content their algorithm feeds them. The baby is gone. Their children are gone.

I have been going and coming from home for almost two decades now. The first time my parents left me alone in Kota, I cried for a couple of days. In later years, I saw them getting emotional as I left. It was especially surprising to see tears in Papa’s eyes. Having had a tense relationship with him growing up, I didn’t think he was capable of this. It is a significant show of emotion from a man. And I say that because I have repeatedly seen men around me jump at procedure and logistics when confronted by a family member’s death.

Now, why was I going to Bhopal? The interior work of our apartment was coming to an end, and I had to take the handover. Papa had bought this apartment a few years ago, hoping that once I was done with my ‘hobby’—trying to be a writer and filmmaker—in Mumbai, I would ‘settle’ in Bhopal and make a sustainable profession of it. That I would be closer to home and in a city that he finds more familiar and less overwhelming. A city where they can stay with us more often than Mumbai. A city that can be our home. I have repeatedly argued that I don’t know anyone in Bhopal. That Mumbai is more conducive to my work. And that I hate it when he calls it a hobby. But I’ve never been able to get through to him.

When I was single, they pushed me to get married and get settled. Now, I am married, and they are worried I will settle in Mumbai. That I will never come back home. I have to admit that I don’t want to live in Gwalior anymore. And even though I feel settled in Mumbai right now, I couldn’t bear the city’s chaos forever. Bhopal does offer a balance between the two worlds. But I am undecided as yet, and constantly considering my options. I am on a Goa Housing Rental WhatsApp group. And my first International trip last year to a developed country—Australia—has got me dreaming about a life beyond the mess of India. Where you can walk on the streets and breathe clean air. It was an easier decision to move to Mumbai. My work brought me here. I don’t know where to take my home anymore.

Reunited with Cuto

I returned to a rainy Mumbai. Light enough. Cinematic enough. Witnessing the Arabian Sea’s glory from the sea link. I walked into our apartment, into an embrace with my wife, and Cuto came out meowing as usual. I picked him up, carried him, and assured him that we would go out for a walk later at night. Then Rumi meowed from the top of a cupboard. And I was so glad to be back home.

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