Defining Belonging
Untangling the complex weaves of family and home
I walk across the plush paisley carpet of Mumbai’s Terminal 2, battling a strange sense of déjà vu. Of course, I have been here before. Mumbai is my hometown — town, a woefully inadequate term to define this thriving megapolis and home, if I count the first two decades of my life spent here with parents, siblings, and a large extended family stretched across the suburbs. I should be happy about this homecoming but I can’t.
Without parents, there is a house but no home in Mumbai.
Why did I agree to attend my college reunion? The question plays on a soundless loop in the background as I study the swanky new terminal, very different from the dreary Sahar airport from which I had departed for America three decades ago. My parents had sent me off with blessings and smiles, careful to not weigh down my new beginning with tears.
On my first few visits to Mumbai, I used to arrive homesick but happy to be back in the fold. Our home didn’t have air-conditioning, expensive artefacts, or enough space. We didn’t own a car. I had all this in the U.S. But upon every return, the ease with which I resumed my place in the family hierarchy was proof of my right to belong.
