Home, Apparently
1011 Words
The problem with returning to your village at thirty-three is that nothing stays where you left it.
Not the roads.
Not the houses.
Not the people.
And definitely not you.
The bus slowed as it approached the village entrance.
I looked out of the window and immediately discovered that my village had spent the last few years making questionable decisions.
The old temple had been renovated.
Which sounded nice in theory.
In practice, it now looked like someone had given unlimited access to marble tiles and poor judgment.
The old banyan tree was still there.
The pond was still there.
The tea stall was gone.
A tragedy nobody seemed to be discussing.
Priorities, apparently, had declined since I left.
The bus took a turn into the main road.
Or what used to be the main road.
The houses had grown.
The road had shrunk.
Somewhere during my absence, the villagers had collectively decided that public roads were merely suggestions.
One house had extended its compound wall.
The next house had done the same.
Then another.
Then another.
It was less urban development and more competitive encroachment.
If the trend continued, future generations would have to enter the village sideways.
The old man sitting beside me noticed where I was looking.
"Village has changed, hasn't it?"
I smiled.
"Depends on your definition of change."
He laughed.
I didn't.
I was being serious.
The bus finally stopped near the village shelter.
I stood up carefully.
Very carefully.
At nine months pregnant, every movement required planning, preparation, and occasionally divine assistance.
The baby kicked.
Hard.
"Please," I muttered.
"You haven't even been born yet. The least you can do is cooperate."
The baby kicked again.
Clearly, I was raising a future politician.
The woman sitting across from me laughed.
I glared at my stomach.
The stomach remained unapologetic.
Five minutes later, I successfully climbed down from the bus carrying one trolley bag, one backpack, and approximately the weight of a small watermelon attached to my front.
The village air hit me immediately.
The smell was different.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just familiar.
Wet soil.
Freshly cut grass.
Wood smoke.
And somewhere nearby, somebody was making dosa batter.
Home had a smell.
I had forgotten that.
The baby kicked again.
"You're lucky," I informed it.
"You get room service twenty-four hours a day."
No response.
Not even gratitude.
Parenthood was already proving disappointing.
I adjusted my backpack and started walking.
Three months ago, I had been living in Hyderabad.
Three months ago, my biggest concern had been production deployments, client meetings, and pretending not to be annoyed during conference calls.
Now my biggest concern was whether I could sit down and get back up without requiring a rescue team.
Life is funny that way.
Actually, funny isn't the right word.
Life is more like that relative who arrives uninvited, rearranges your furniture, eats all your snacks, creates emotional damage, and leaves before explaining anything.
A few villagers recognized me immediately.
Which was impressive.
I hadn't seen some of them in years.
Yet somehow they identified me before I reached the end of the street.
Village memory is a terrifying thing.
"Is that Mounika?"
"When did she come?"
"Look how grown up she is."
I was thirty-three.
I certainly hoped I looked grown up.
One particularly enthusiastic aunty stared openly at my stomach.
Then at me.
Then back at my stomach.
I considered introducing them.
"This is the baby," I could have said.
"We've been traveling together for a while now."
Instead, I smiled politely and kept walking.
By evening, the entire village would know I had returned.
By tomorrow morning, they would probably know what I had for breakfast.
The village information network had always been faster than the internet.
Our house appeared at the end of the road.
The same blue gate.
The same veranda.
The same jasmine plant near the entrance.
For a moment, everything else disappeared.
The years.
The city.
The grief.
The silence.
Everything.
I was twenty again.
Fifteen.
Ten.
A little girl running through the front yard.
Then reality returned.
Mostly because my lower back reminded me it existed.
My mother was already standing outside.
Waiting.
The moment she saw me, her eyes filled with tears.
I sighed.
Not because she was emotional.
Because I knew exactly what was coming.
"My poor child."
There it was.
I silently counted.
Three.
Two.
One.
"You've become so thin."
I stared at her.
I was carrying an entire human being.
If I became any thinner, I would disappear entirely.
"Amma," I said patiently, "there is literally a baby attached to me."
She ignored my comment and pulled me into a hug.
For a brief second, I stopped joking.
Just a second.
The last three months had felt longer than the previous thirty-three years combined.
Hospital corridors.
Phone calls.
Paperwork.
Visitors.
Sympathy.
Silence.
Too much silence.
Returning to a home where every object still remembered someone who wasn't there anymore was harder than I had expected.
My mother held me tighter.
And for the first time since arriving, I let myself relax.
Just a little.
The baby kicked again.
Apparently emotional moments were boring.
"See?" I told Amma.
"Your grandchild already has opinions."
Amma laughed through her tears.
The sound felt strangely comforting.
As if some small piece of normal life had survived everything.
That evening, after unpacking half my luggage and being fed enough food to sustain a medium-sized village, I sat on the veranda watching the sunset.
The fields stretched into the distance.
The air was cooler.
The village sounds slowly settled into evening.
For the first time in months, there was no hospital.
No office.
No condolences.
No expectations.
Just home.
Maybe that's why I didn't notice the conversation happening inside the house.
Not until I heard my mother say a familiar name.
A name I hadn't heard in years.
A name buried somewhere deep inside old memories.
"Did you hear?" Amma asked someone.
"Manoj is back too."
I froze.
And suddenly, for reasons I couldn't explain, childhood came rushing back.
- Writer
