We, the Urban Nomads: In Search of Home and Hearth

Is “home” unattainable in the 21st century?

Prologue: Between Dearth and Desire

“So when do we come over to your home?” Satish asked.

It was Friday and the guys could leave a bit early from work. A party was planned at Anoop’s place. Place — that’s the word Anoop was comfortable with. He threw open his place, a 1 BHK in a building overlooking a quaint leafy lane in Powai, to parties frequently since the time he moved to Mumbai, and was used to his teammates asking him: “Hey Anoop, at what time do we come over to your place?”

Today, it was different. Home — the word struck Anoop like a lightning. He rolled the word around his tongue, mentally, savouring the burst of nostalgia the word evoked.

Home. H-o-m-e.

“7-ish,” blurted out Anoop following the reverie. “At my place,” he stressed.

Home for Anoop was Kochi. Two years into a fairly cushy job as a market research executive in the port city, the firm shut down unexpectedly. Political vendetta, pointed out his colleagues. Thankfully, Joseph chettan bailed him out and got him a job in Mumbai. Anoop was relieved but heartbroken. He would have to leave his parents, his friends, his relatives. He would have to leave Manju; the relationship had just bloomed. He would have to leave his home.

His home — a one-storey and Kerala-style spread-out house with a beautiful, large porch. The porch had a swing on which Anoop spent his evenings sipping filter coffee and going through the day’s Malayalam Manorama. The paint on the 70-year-old room walls was peeling off and the tubelights had dimmed. Parts of the roof were leaking and the stray dog menace was making life miserable.

But for Anoop, the company of his folks at home, his Sunday football matches with friends, the daily errands he had to run to help his amma recovering from a bad fall last spring, his daily rides on his dad’s Vespa on rain-drenched streets, the steamer rides on the Fort Kochi river, and the early morning romantic rendezvous with Manju —everything was so very familiar. All these meant life and home for him.

In the new city, he was lost. It was bigger and glitzier. The familiar comfort was missing. But he was strong. He had cried only once. Twice actually, if one counted the time tears welled up in his eyes when amma had called him complaining about how her back pain had turned worse.

Anoop’s place in Mumbai was decent. The landlord had also left behind a fridge and a washing machine that came in handy. The rooms were painted bright and all his colleagues loved the space - small, expensive, yet nice.

But was it home for Anoop? No.

He wanted the dull walls back, he wanted the teakwood swing back, he wanted the scooter rides back, he wanted the grassy football fields back, he wanted his daily walks with Manju back.

He wanted his home back.

Chapter 1: Urban Nomads

Vasundhara has moved to Delhi from Patna, fed up of her mother-in-law’s constant jibes. Her husband has been very supportive. Both are into new jobs in the capital now and the pay is much better. Vasundhara spends a peaceful life now knowing that it will be only visits to her in-laws’ now. Yet, Delhi is not her home.

Flat, apartment, building, house. These are the words that come to Maneka’s mind whenever she thinks of her new abode — her husband’s home. She has just been married and has moved to a new house in Bhopal. “From now, this is your home and you are our daughter,” a relative had said. Maneka had smiled and cursed under her breath. This is not my home, she had thought. Home is Bareilly.

73-year-old Rajesh Ganguly has spent the last 45 years in Delhi. He is a probashi bangali, a non-resident Bengali, who now visited Calcutta only to close business deals along with his son. His favourite pastime is complaining about everything in Calcutta--politics, pollution, transportation, weather, corruption, lack of jobs, quality of current films—during his morning walk sessions, informal chats with clients, over dinner with his granddaughter, and even during Durga Puja addas in his colony.

But when he is alone at night, his mind wanders to the childhood days he spent along with his four siblings in his Southern Avenue home. When he has had a drink too many, he turns envious of his poorer relatives back in Calcutta, for reasons unknown to him.

And when in moments of insecurity, he opens the old picture album, the only asset that he had brought along to Delhi when he ran away from home, his heart pines for Calcutta.

He wonders: “How I wish I spend my last days with my relatives and friends in Calcutta—my home.”

Suruchi lives in a posh residential complex in Greater Chennai. Her husband had hand-picked this society as more than 50 per cent of the residents are Odias. Suruchi is the president of the Odia cultural community and a member of an Odissi dance troupe in the city. Her interaction is more with people from her community than Tamilians. Bhai had said home is a psychological state. It all depends on whether you are surrounded by members of your community or not. Well, Suruchi is. Still why does she not feel at home?

Mudassar Khan is a security officer in an IT park in Gurgaon. The entire village in Darbhanga is proud of him to have found his way into a bigger city. He earns Rs 20,000 a month, sends Rs 5,000 home and manages a savings of Rs 5,000-Rs 6,000. That’s huge, says his father who could not make ends meet even two years back. His wife is happy, they will make a new beginning here. By Allah’s grace, everything seems perfect. But Mudassar is far from content. It’s been just a month that he visited his family in his native place, and he is thinking of applying for another leave at the earliest.

He’s tempting fate: The battle is on between career and home.

Prabhjit’s meteoric rise has seen him change multiple jobs and five cities in the last three years. Presently, he is working as a tech lead in Bangalore. He drives a Merc, goes on exotic vacations thrice a year and frequents five-star hotels for dinner. He has just bought a duplex apartment as well. I will settle in Bangalore now, he thinks.

But every night when he comes back to his duplex, he misses Chandigarh. Every single night. It’s natural, no big deal, he thinks. One has to be strong, one has to be practical. After all, what opportunities did Chandigarh give him? None! And hey, his immediate family — wife, kids, parents, and even some relatives — are in Bangalore. He’s got everything he wanted in life now. Even more. Then why does Chandigarh draw him so strongly?

Aakansha always wanted to study biotechnology in the States. Her joy knew no bounds when she finally got a call from The University of Wisconsin. Now it’s only a week left to fly miles away from her folks, her friends, her city, her home. Delhi never seemed so dear for her.

Things have not been going quite well for Imran Ali for the last few months. A gnawing doubt has been bothering him: I pay my taxes, I stand up for the national anthem, I love and respect my country, I have all papers in order - for God’s sake I am an Indian.

So why do I feel persecuted whenever there’s a discussion on global terrorism in office or when my neighbour doesn’t send his son home to play with my kid, when a minister makes a communal remark? Why do I feel not at home in my country? What then is my home?

Dolly Tamang works in a beauty parlour in Hyderabad. From being addressed as chinki, cheeni and japani to also being labelled a prostitute, she’s seen it all in these five years she moved from Imphal. It’s a huge opportunity, says her mother. People will say things, just ignore, say her other ‘North-eastern’ friends in the city. Just f*ck it, says her boyfriend, focus on your career. But Dolly doesn’t like it here at all. She is lonely. People in Imphal are so warm, kindhearted and friendly. Imphal is my home, nowhere else, she thinks.

Virendra has finally been posted in Rajkot. The army officer has returned to his city after spending five years each in Jammu, Coimbatore and Jaipur. He has returned home. He is at peace. Or is he? Every day he is in constant fear of being transferred again. He looks at the peaceful faces of his daughters while they sleep; he knows he has to pay for their education and marriage in a few years. The respite is temporary. In another one or two years, he might be transferred to another city. He will have to leave his home—again.

It was Kavita and Suresh’s dream to have a house of their own. So when they moved in to a new flat in Noida, they were very happy. A good deal, good neighbours, quieter from their rented place in Delhi where they stayed for the last 20 years. But they still miss the cacophony of Karol Bagh, the chaos of their neighbourhood, even the pollution and the lack of proper lighting in their area—things that they had got used to. Perhaps time will erase the memories, the longing. Perhaps they will take a few months to settle down in Noida. Perhaps this will be their home from now on. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Alex is a travel writer. Originally from Goa, he travels around three weeks a month and lives life out of a suitcase. From Bulgaria to Bali, Mexico to Madrid, Shanghai to Seattle, Auckland to Abu Dhabi, he has visited so many places, met so many people, had a taste of diverse food and culture. While filing copies from his hotel room or near a waterfall or perched on a cliff, the free bird has always wondered: What is home for me? Is it Goa? Or is it the various countries of the world? Or is it the journey itself?

Travelling across countries and oceans, the concept of home had become fuzzy for him. When he is in a hotel room, he misses his lovely house in Panjim. When he is in Panjim, his feet itches for the next trip. Home for Alex is elusive.

Chapter 2: What Is Home, and Other Questions

No, I don’t know any of the people mentioned above. They are all fictitious, yet real. They don’t exist, yet they do. Look around you. Perhaps you will find a Virendra in Calcutta and Dolly in the US, an Aakansha in Bangalore and Mudassar in Kochi. They are all bound by one thing—they are all away from their homes. Job, circumstances and willingness have been enablers. They pined for more from life at home, and yet they are not happy when they have more. They are in the crossroads of adjustment.

Why should I adjust, think many. It’s a passing phase, the others feel. Some will cross over to a new life and adapt, others will dwell in a void, the rest will succumb and return. At present, they are out in the open, they are not home.

Which brings us to the question: What is home? Is home a physical space or a mental state? Is it the dilapidated north Calcutta mansion, which is crumbling yet cosy? Or is it the dreams that a new city shows and fulfils? What constitutes home for us? Community or comfort? Brand new amenities or familiar drudgery? Adjustability or acquaintance? Is it the teakwood four-poster bed that our grandfather had got to Calcutta/ Delhi from Dhaka/ Lahore or the Jacuzzi that overlooks a well-trimmed garden? Is it nostalgia or modernity?

Is home the rented flat in the city where you work? Is home the new house where you move into after marriage? Is home living amidst people of your own community or religion? Is home the city that you loathe due to lack of opportunities? Is home your swanky bungalow in the middle of nowhere? Is home your country where you feel like an outsider? Is home the intermittent halts during the constant journey that life is?

What is home for the stateless Rohingyas? Myanmar, where they are ostracised or Bangladesh, which is refusing to let them in? Do the Scots, Tibetans, Balochs, Catalanians or Kashmiris feel great about being ruled by a country which they don’t identify with? Do they really feel at home?

What about the Bangladeshis or Pakistanis or Indians in England? The land of opportunities—is it their home? What is home for the thousands who fled from Syria into Europe seeking a better life? What is home for the Bengali who has roots in and deep emotional connect with Dhaka? The Punjabi who ended up in India from the other side of the border during partition?

We, the urban nomads, are mostly homeless today. Traversing geographical boundaries in search of comfort and opportunities. For us, nothing is permanent. Today we might be in Gurgaon, tomorrow in Chennai, and just when you think you have settled in Bangalore, life might take you to Delhi.

So do the ones who have been staying in a geographical location over a long period of time consider it as their home? May be. So why do they want to go to a different place with better opportunities, better lifestyle? Do the ones who have finally shifted to a dream house or a better city feel at home? May be. So why do they look back and feel nostalgic about the familiar place they have left?

Is home a particular hut, flat, building, colony, city, state or country? Is home a habit?

Home is perhaps a state of being. Home is perhaps the yearning that results from dissatisfaction with our surroundings, identity, pay, amenities, culture, etc. Home is perhaps the physical blocks of a puzzle that is so deep-rooted in us—the porch, the scooter, the swing. Home is perhaps the memories that refuse to leave us even if we move away from them. Home is perhaps mental acceptance. Home is perhaps adjustability. Hope is perhaps material comforts. Home is perhaps nostalgia.

Home is perhaps unattainable.

Epilogue

My career has so far taken me to Bangalore, Delhi, NCR, Chennai and Calcutta — the last being my city of origin. Wherever else I have been, I have missed Calcutta as young birds miss their nest. But the desire to fly and touch the sky has time and again taken me away from it. James Joyce could write about the dullness and moral disintegration of Dublin in exile. And I have seen many a Bengali from Calcutta or a Calcuttan settle outside and criticise the city to no end.

For me, it has been the other way round. While staying in Calcutta, I had been vocal about my resentment towards the ills of the place as every aware individual is. I fancy that I am now in self-imposed exile. And it has only led me to discover the beauty of the city. It’s a biased but beautiful feeling.

I have been able to connect more emotionally to Calcutta and realise that whatever circumstances I would be in, there will always be a longing for Calcutta. Tomorrow my job might take me to Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore or Hyderabad. But there will always be a desire to return to Calcutta—my home.

(Yashodeep Sengupta is an amateurish social observer, film buff, and a journalist on a break.)

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