On Growing Up

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Part of growing up is realizing
That safe havens are illusory.
I used to go to my mother when I was small,
And know she would make things right.
Mother’s presence does not give me that assurance anymore.

I have this memory of Christmas eve in London,
It is a difficult time for an outsider with no moorings in the city,
Streets are silent, shops are closed,
There is no place that offers a balm to your homesickness.

I strolled down Huddleston Road…
And saw a family sitting at the dining table by their window.

There I was, at the periphery,
Wistfully looking at the centre of the circle, wanting in.

I wanted to go home.
And yet… that image took me back to this time in my childhood,
I was playing with my friends on our terrace,
Games of our growing up years – lagori, kho kho, lock and key.
I stopped by at their place on my way back,
They showed me the new upholstery their father bought for the house,
It was Diwali the next day,
They spoke about mithai, diyas, crackers, celebrations,
There, at that moment, I had a tantalizing glimpse of the centre,
Visible but just beyond reach,
And there I was, once again, at the periphery, wanting in,
Wanting the surety of belonging certainly, definitely,
To a central point I could go away from and come back to every time.

This scene has repeated itself so many times over the years…
The situation different,
The desire to belong the same.

Maybe part of growing up is realizing that I must find a home within myself,
And be comfortable with the transience of the centrality
Of peoples, places, events
Maybe part of growing up is about embracing the silences within,
And not trying to fill it with throbbing noise.



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