“What do you think of when you think of home?”

Mumbai, meri Jaan.

6 AM getting dressed for school. Ma’s bangles jingling from the kitchen, making rotis for me to take. Baba’s cologne just spritzed — he’s ready to go to work. Hair up in a ponytail, slicked back, short. Uniform, nails trimmed. No accessories, just Kajal. The soft tip of black kohl lining my waterline. It feels different at 22 than it did at 16. At 16, it was a part of getting dressed, not a memory of my culture.

The smell of dampness in the air. The constant sound of traffic, cars, and restless drivers. Mumbai is always ready for the day, Mumbai is impatient. Like me, Mumbai has dreams, ambitions, goals, and mountains to climb. The city never sleeps — Mumbai is always alive.

“What do you think of when you think of home?”

Streets full of locals, women selling gajras at red lights. Small children, begging for coins — we share, we give. We are different, but the same; we live in a city that never stops breathing. The lives we live, the languages we speak, the gods we pray to, the values we keep — all different. But we share a love. Mumbai, meri Jaan.

Goregaon, Jogeshwari, Juhu, Powai — long drives, 3 AM. It’s unsafe for girls to be out this late, in a city that never sleeps. Still, we drive. Nine, ten, fifteen friends — hundreds bound together by a culture that brought us here. Drives to restaurants, BYOB, only 18. Hookah bars: Kasbah, fast cars on the Sea link, screaming to Desi Girl on the radio. I am home.

Meri Jaan, Mumbai — she carries traces of my traditions and old habits. Every Sunday, at the mall with my family. The tradition always stayed the same. First, we get Mcdonald's — A Mexican McAloo Tikki with peri peri fries. Then, dessert: brownies from Theobroma. Next, movies at PVR. There is a comfort that’s hard to describe, associated with watching movies in your own language. Sitting together, 3/4 hours, sharing the same emotions with people you will never see again. Standing in the same line during intermission. Caramel popcorn and a medium Pepsi. “Bhaiya, kitna hua?”

I remember other traditions that my family had. My grandparents’ house, tucked away in the suburb. The perfect holiday each weekend. Greeted with hugs and questions about how school is. Then, we play cards. Rummy, do-teen-paanch, saath-8. I lose but I win. Rani. At my grandparents’ place, everyone’s an early bird. 7 AM we wake. My grandfather fetches the newspapers. The Times of India. Aaji snatches the Mumbai times. Bollywood gossip. Big Boss. Rakhi Savant. Classic. The sound of chai being slurped, and Parle G being dipped. Cries of distress, as the dunked biscuit breaks and dissolves. Mumbai, meri Jaan.

It’s now October. My favorite time of the year. Monsoon fades, lights re-appear. String lights, single lights, Candles, agarbattis. Diwali. Fireworks, magic, food, family. Taash parties, late-night comedy shows. If it’s Holi, then all of the above, but Bhaang adds to the punch. It doesn’t matter if you’re religious; it doesn’t matter if you’re Hindu. What I miss about home the most is communities and cultures coming together, celebrating India for everything that it is. Home.

When I think of home, I think of this. A place unlike any other. Fire-y, moody, chaotic, emotional.

Then, I remember leaving. Long plane rides. 16 hours, sometimes 24. 20-something year old, looking for dreams around the world, but longing for the feeling of being back home. For feeling home again.

What do I think when I think of home?

Mumbai Meri Jaan.

Glossary
- Mumbai, meri jaan: Mumbai, my life. A classic phrase that most Mumbai dwellers use to describe the city
- Garjras: flower arrangements that women wear in their hair around festivals
- Kasbah: A hookah bar my friends often hung out at
- “Bhaiya, kitna hua?”: “How much does this cost?”
- Aaji: paternal grandmother
- chai: tea
- Parle G: a classic biscuit you can only find in India. So good
- Taash parties: poker nights
- agarbattis: incense sticks

No younger sister to protect, no older brother to fight with — I am happy. I am an only child — a statement that garners knowing looks and “ah I knew it”’s from strangers. I never understood why they seemed sad for me. Being the only child meant I didn’t need to compete for Baba’s attention or Ma’s food. I was satisfied. I was independent. I was observant.

My boredom often consisted of reading books, playing in the kitchen while Ma cooked, and watching TV. Usually, however, I had time on my hands to observe. So, I did. I observed my mother’s sacrifices, the way she haggled with shopkeepers, and got excited when she found old saris. How her favorite color wasn’t purple, it was lilac. Light, pretty — like her. I also observed my father’s strength, his ability to articulate his intellect, to speak in front of crowds larger than I could imagine, and his sacrifices. His emotions — hidden, but I saw them because I held a soft spot in his heart. Only daughter. Prized possession.

My parents always wanted a daughter. Or so I’ve been told. I like to take their word for it — I feel a sense of pride, that in a world where women are ignored, pushed to the side, and talked down to, my parents wanted to raise their own little firework. Me.

They raised me in a home that was full of books, documentaries, podcasts, tickets to literary festivals, and TEDx events. Stories, ideas, political discourse, debates, arguments. There was music, dance, more books written by my mother, and art created by my father. I had a world full of intellectual fantasies, and it was all mine. I didn’t need to share.

The burden of being the only child isn’t what people tell you it is. It’s not the boredom, the lack of sibling sleepovers, or not having someone to share stories with. The burden of being the only child is the ideas you feed yourself, that you owe it to your parents to be the most perfect version of yourself. Always, without fail, showing up and proving everyone wrong. I was brought up strong. Told to never back down, to never be afraid, have the courage to fight. I was also taught to be kind and compassionate. But my self-taught narrative to fight and protect went beyond me; it included my family.

As my parents went to bed, I assumed my role as knight. Tiny, 12, armor on chest, sword in hand, I want to protect; I was born to protect. The burden of being an only child became a self-critical view of my emotions. Sadness turned to anger turned to numbness. Can’t feel anything, can’t show signs of struggle, because I must protect. I must live up to the expectations that my parents had when they said they only wanted a daughter. I must serve as a son.

Be bold, be confident, be strong. Not too emotional, because I must look after Ma when Baba’s away; not too stoic because I must be the honey that softens my Baba’s anger. Natural femininity lost to a culture that taught me that being man enough is the only way to be human. Power, status, money — desires of a materialistic teenager, who opened her eyes to the reality of a world where mountains are easier to climb if you have a tie to throw over the cliff and hurl yourself up. Heels weren’t made for walking on stone.

Suddenly I am 18. A woman, battling the stereotypes of my gender, is proud to have characteristics in my personality that are stereotypically masculine. Logic, no emotions. Protect. Serve. Provide. I am foolish. I don’t know yet, how to garner the strength to protect myself, my gender, and my family without subscribing to the “ideal” that men are more powerful.

The burden of being the only daughter is this: it is a forgotten femininity. A sense of delicateness that no longer rings true. Hands rugged, I am strong, I am capable, I am intelligent. I can protect. When I look around, however, I see women, with their delicateness still intact, just as strong. I am confused.

The burden of being the only child is thinking you must be more.

From my Aai, I learned kindness and compassion. My Nani taught me patience. I learned to have courage from my Masi. But I also grew up to have thick skin. I learned that from my Aaji. This is her story.

She is strong. I draw from her justice, patience, and kindness. As I bloom into a woman and depart from childhood, I see parts of her in me. But I forget parts of myself. I forget the playfulness of a child; a sense of innocence that is lost on me today.

When I was younger, I would sneak into my Aaji’s room as she napped and cuddle up next to her. Lavender perfume, fresh-cut grass, and the smell of the dal she just cooked. My tiny little fingers would trace the wrinkles on her beautiful, brown skin; it always felt like malai. Today when I hold her hand, I can feel the soft touch of my four-year-old self. She preserved it; through the years, fights, and distance, my Aaji held onto four-year-old me and protected her.

Memories of myself that I forgot, I am told about in stories that she recites. About how I would cry when I did my homework, chase ants around the house, and dance in front of the TV at the sight of any Bollywood music channel. She holds onto the child before her, and unknowingly heals the child in me when we talk. Motherhood is an art.

My favorite small talk in any kitchen has always been praising my Aaji’s food. Saying she’s the best cook I know — that she knows exactly how I like to eat my shrikhand and poli. I beam with pride as I describe her food. When I was younger, my cousin and I would fight for who got the last laddoo she made. Today, when I celebrate Diwali away from home, it is the same laddoo that I can still taste. Buried in the memories of my mind, I still remember the taste of my Aaji’s food. Kheer. Dal. Bhindi. “Aaji, why don’t you write down some recipes and Whatsapp them to me.” We both laugh. She always says yes. But conversation flows and I never remember to ask again. Until I’m in the kitchen, confused between jeera and mori, struggling to pick a spice. Until then, I forget what a great cook my Aaji is.

8000 miles of water separating blood. Sometimes I don’t know if I blame the water between us or the bad blood that has festered in my family. My Aaji is sweet. She is kind and compassionate. She is a woman of character, tender — a mother that protects. When I was younger, I didn’t see her strength. In the midst of it all, I forgot what it was like for a woman like her, to give everything to raise a family of children and grandchildren that took for granted every piece of food, laddoos, and care that they were shown. She raised her children with all the reassurance in a world that repeatedly told her she wasn’t good enough, smart enough, pretty enough. Teaching them confidence, knowing full well that one day they may grow old and move away because they needed space or wanted to pursue their own life. Villainizing strong women is easy — it is also characteristic of most desi households.

8000 miles away and 22 years later, I realize that perhaps I misremembered my Aaji. Every missed call, every forgotten birthday wish, anniversary, graduation gift. Every fight I held onto, imprinting itself over the memories of haldi doodh and afternoon storytimes; I villainized my Aaji and realize today that it is a burden that womanhood comes with. Societies, communities, and cultures taught me that when women grow older, they become shrewd and uptight; when men get older — they just get wiser. The lost credibility of a brown woman’s words is a fate that I can see coming, without knowing how to change. My Aaji’s childhood, her stories, and experiences. Her mind — overlooked and forgotten by a society that only asks her to provide and care and nurture and give. What about her scars?

How can I say I’m sorry? I try to apologize, often in unsent letters, in imagined arguments, and in distracting conversations. I try to tell her that I haven’t forgotten. That I see her now. I see her everywhere. In the flowers that bloom, in history books that I read, in the food that I taste. I think of my Aaji and wish that I could fly her to me, to show her the things that make 22 year-old-me happy, sad, excited, elated. Guilty. I feel guilty to have a life that I wish she had. To have the freedom to choose her own paths, pursue her career and read books that she could only dream of. Guilty that I let 8000 miles stand between us. But mostly, I feel guilty that she would do it all again if it meant that I could be happy in all the ways I am.

When we talk today, we talk like friends. Today, I am no longer a four-year-old crying over lost crayons, and she is no longer just my grandmother. We are friends. Confidants. We are both living the life of one brown woman, generations apart. Experiences differ, but at the crux of it, we are the same. We want to be seen, and we have dreams we long for. We are trailblazers.

Today, I see it in her eyes. I see the pride as she watches me conquer the world, step by step. As the little four-year-old who cuddled up in her sari navigates forests and concrete jungles with an excitement that’s childlike. She tells me how she’s proud, but she also tells me never to forget. She says “Remember where you come from. Remember your values. It’s who you are.” I nod. I smile. I can still smell her sari. Rose, tamarind, sweet. Soft. Kind. I carry on the legacy of her womanhood in the jhumkas dangling from my ears and small laddoos in my bag, even when I’m 8000 miles away, hoping to become half the woman that my Aaji is.

Glossary:
- Aai: Mother
- Nani: Maternal grandmother
- Masi: Aunt
- Aaji: Paternal grandmother
- Dal: Indian cooked lentils
- Malai: Curd
- Shrikhand and Poli: A classic Marathi dish
- Kheer: A sweet rice dish
- Bhindi: Okra
- Laddoos: Another classic Indian sweet
- Haldi Doodh: Turmeric milk
- Jhumkas: Classic Indian earrings, usually large and oxidised