BBA & HBWC Administrator
Andrea Reece
30 Winton Avenue, London, N11 2AT
Tel: 0208 889 1292
Mob: 07807 893369
Email: branford.boase@gmail.com
Press Enquiries
Andrea Reece
Tel: 07807 893369 | Email: branford.boase@gmail.com
Once a year, my family visits our homeland – India. Whatever time of year holds no matter, because it’s always boiling – the only consistent constant I can count on. After embarking a series of plane rides, knowing that I am simply on Indian soil? The trip is worth it.
I walked up dusty, pink, concrete stairs to the entrance of my grandmother’s house. An annual ritual. My grandmother welcomed and ushered us inside with excitement whilst my father hauled suitcases out of the trunk of the taxi. As everyone was distracted with the usual routine of exchanging pleasantries, I swept past unnoticed and made a beeline for the second storey of the house. Practically throwing myself at the door to my bedroom, I jumped into the bed and pressed my face into the bedsheets, closing the door behind me and locking myself inside. With as much energy I could muster, I picked up a remote and turned the air conditioning and ceiling fan on. I felt the sweat drip off my face as I stared at the walls, sighing with content. It’s not as if I didn’t want to talk to anybody, but at the same time, I didn’t want to. I shut my eyes and allowed myself to be swallowed by the cold air. Almost immediately, I drifted into sleep.
I awoke with a jolt, my mother tugging at my arm and nudging me with such force that she might as well been shoving me. She forced a black shawl and a neatly folded cotton dress into my arms. Of course, I must meet my entire extended family before I take proper rest. I sighed and accepted it. No point in arguing. I pulled the dress over my body and wound the shawl around my head, unable to stop it from slipping off my shoulders every so often. As I retreated downstairs, my sister was already waiting for me.
We left our house and began walking down the colourful, terracotta house-lined street. I knew the roads like the back of my hand; I knew which houses contained trustworthy families, which houses contained unreliable families, which houses contained friends of my mother and which houses had families that witnessed my birth. It was a quiet, close-knit community where everyone knew each other. It wasn’t uncommon to wander the streets and go into a stranger’s home and be greeted with warmth, but I was never used to that concept. We weaved in and out through motorcycle-filled roads and stray barn animals sitting idly at doorsteps, basking in the sunlight – until finally, we reached our extended family’s home.
Before I could even mentally prepare myself for the wave of unwanted attention I was about to receive, the door swung open and I was welcomed in by my great aunt. I took my shoes off and as soon as I walked into the living room, the room erupted into “Assalamu Alaikum!s.” I think I might have said “Wa alaikum Salam…” in response about 10 times. I shrunk into the corner of the room, sitting next to my little cousins larking and laughing as my aunt told them off. I listened to the adults’ conversations in rapid Tamil, trying to understand everything, laughing along with jokes I didn’t quite fully translate. At some point, my cousins dragged me away to play, and it was then when I realised I knew my way around the house despite it not being mine.
India is a place I know well, a place I know more than it knows me. But it’s still my home.
My true home.