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Why was I born where I was born?
Why do I belong in places that did not bring me up at all?
A historical conservative town up the northern plains of India
where my mother arrived before me without choice—
her marriage arranged and bound
away from her friendly hometown
where I arrived in about ten months of her displacement
in a town that did not like me — or my mother—
for being too bold to dress up in jeans
instead of a traditional saree;
the women often envying her outspoken ideas
which they thought in private,
they surely did not like me firstly
because I was born a girl,
and secondly, I resembled my mother too much.
As a little girl, maybe that’s why I had a tough time
understanding her advice when she said:
make your own money so you don’t get stuck like me
and I thought what joy does it give you to chase it?
As a highschooler whose bills got paid,
I couldn’t understand why she felt helpless
when she was taken care of with my father’s job
until I started dating and met men who’d treat money as a gateway into my bed
and maybe that’s why I never let men pay for my drinks—
just to avoid even that small chance of a subtext that would make me feel indebted.
Those moments probably brought me closer to my mother,
never being able to tell her that her life advice saved me from predators who seemed human,
but fed on women’s flesh draining them of their blood— sometimes until they birthed a son;
and yet for a very long time I wanted to prove her wrong,
show her that it was love that ruled the world—
that it was possible to love and be loved without being consumed by capitalism.
She told me to marry a man of the same economic background (or more)
and I would retaliate saying that I only needed love (and nothing more),
ironically, not realising that I mistook her intention.
We were on the same page all along,
just speaking in different tongues;
but perceived differences do hit real hard,
miscommunication can rip you apart.
And that’s why I moved far far away from my hometown that never felt like home.
People had too much time to stare and grope—
interrupting your dreams, fingers to point and poke,
to remind you that you had a womb to birth and a vagina that was never your own—
don’t you dare try to find pleasure.
Thank goodness my mother’s second biggest life advice saved me again,
she would warn me seriously and say:
I don’t care what you do, but you better find a good college outside of this State.
As a child, I felt like she just wanted to push me away—
like she didn’t love me enough to be with her—
and out of spite of course I took her advice
and found the best college far far away
moving from the northern plains to the southern coast of India—
that gave me a sense of liberation and safety,
which my hometown never can even today;
I felt a belonging like no other—
maybe I felt I belonged because I was an outsider,
I did not speak their language, unaware of their culture,
at seventeen— I fell in love with the peace that city brought me
despite not knowing anyone,
maybe that’s what appealed to me so much—
the space to be left by myself and no one controlling my life or reminding me of my gender,
not speaking the same tongue sometimes can bring you a sense of serenity,
which your hometown makes overbearing even though you speak the same tongue,
live the same culture and yet just forget to actually listen and understand each other.
That city taught me that comprehending a person
had nothing to do with language or culture,
your intentions were what really mattered.
I found a tribe, that gave me a home away from my hometown — who genuinely cared to know who I was, what I wanted to be and where I came from
I felt I belonged in places that did not bring me up,
until graduation — when people left to other cities
offering them fancy packages and fat salaries
and I felt like a foreigner again
not knowing how could homeliness creep out?after being so long in a place so beautifully found?
and that’s where I probably questioned the place
and began to see that it were those people — my tribe — that made me feel safe
so I packed my house and took a cab
moved to the Deccan plains — to the city with most of my mates
and instantly I found my home again
away from my hometown unsurprisingly yet again
I never wanted to go back, and even when I did I’d only stay for five days
still unable to understand
Why was I born where I was born?
Why do I belong in places that did not bring me up at all?
And it was in that city that I probably got some thoughts
to find the answers about why I was a runaway girl
or perceived that I was?
Or why I did not like my mother for a while
why she never wanted me to crush on girls
but stay away from boys like all of them were made of menace and misconduct
I never really understood her as a child
but growing through the quarter span of my life
I saw what she did — despite the cracks in our relationship
maybe that’s when I began to see her as a person
instead of just being my mother.
Why I, like herself, hated my hometown and instead loved my mother’s
Why she, like myself, never wanted to be trapped
but was too young to understand
and so when she pushed me out—
she probably decided to ensure my wings never got clipped like hers did— no matter the cost,
except that cost was neglect and dismissal of my feelings—
as a child I only wanted a mother’s unconditional love
and as a mother, and a woman who’s seen the world around her,
she only wanted what was best for her daughter’s future
and we both miserably failed in translating our love for each other
despite having the same blood, language and culture.
And maybe that’s why— I end up finding my home in people
away from my hometown that deprived both me and my mother to feel connection.
When I did understand her, I knew why I was born where I was born—
and it had nothing to do with my hometown but everything to do with my mother.
She called for me without knowing that she did
within ten months of a marriage in a brand new town
to a person and his family she knew nothing about.
I was born to her, not to a place.
Her umbilical cord attached to me in that foreign city,
we belonged with each other, that was our destiny.
True that it took me so long to understand, but when I did,
I wanted to reach out and hug her but didn’t know how?
So I decided to be her wings.
She used to be an artist before her marriage.
So when I could earn and pay my own bills,
I bought her a set of water colours and an art kit.
For two consecutive years I tried to remind her who she was
but she refused to remember for whatever reasons of her own
and so by the third year, when she asked me if I needed anything to be shipped from home,
I told her to send me a hand-made card by post.
And the first thing she painted for me was a multicoloured pretty birdie—
that’s when I knew I had to fly for her— so she could too.
And now she paints huge water-colour canvases to put up on walls
and when she got her first commission at about fifty years old—
she excitedly gave me a call,
I could hear the joy in her voice,
the independence she felt from being paid on her first invoice.
I wish I could’ve hugged her
but the awkwardness still remains from childhood hurt,
even though we have a love to die for each other.
And maybe it’s the rebuilding of our love that makes me want to fly higher,
or maybe it’s the realisation that no matter how much I love her
I will still be a runaway girl— finding comfort in lands that I was not born
in cultures that are foreign and new but still make me belong
and find a home in people — because I moved to a whole different country
within one year of my precious housemate moving on.
Maybe I don’t find places to belong, instead I get called to people who become my home
to show me the love and acceptance that I kept seeking for so long.
~
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