C O M M U N I T Y | VO I C E
Returning Home WORDS MYIESHA JAIN
I
t’s 2015. I can barely comprehend it. In India, I would wake to the growl of traffic, the noise prowling the streets as a new day awakes. Now, in Tokyo, I can barely hear a lick of a sound, only the faint clangs of construction in the distance. Taking in the urban scene beyond my window, instead of seeing cows herded nearby, I only see cold, silent pavement and the occasional person out for a quiet morning stroll. It’s so different that it almost makes my chest ache. Just the day before, I’d been in the tumultuous heart of India, where my own heart belonged. But this is a new country, a new start. I can learn to appreciate the tranquility. I have to. The year is 2022. I can barely comprehend it. It’s been three years since I last set foot in India. Three entire years. My last visit was a few months before
ILLUSTRATION TANIA VICEDO
Covid cast its shadow across the world and turned our lives upside down. I didn’t realize how much I missed the country until now. The moment I step out of the airport, a wave of oppressive heat hits me. Instantaneously, sticky droplets of sweat latch onto my forehead. While we’re driving, I notice the riot of honks. A hint of a smile ghosts my face. During the three years away from India, I had forgotten about its cacophony of sounds and commotion. After seven years of living in Japan, I’d acclimated to its beauty. The women are dressed in colorful saris, emblazoned with gold floral patterns. All the stores are clumped together, their names inscribed in chalk on signs. Everywhere you look, there is bright, dazzling color. Our own house is bedecked in it. The patterned carpets, the couches bursting with melon
green, the fuchsia silk blankets. My family’s embrace seeps into my skin. Aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins. They are all there to welcome me back. As my grandma cooks, deliciously piquant aromas of hot gravy and peppery masala waft from the kitchen. The food is a kaleidoscope of hues, from the darkest greens to the prettiest oranges. A warming blend of spicy flavors sizzles on my tongue and runs down my throat. It fills my stomach, just as India has filled my heart. It’s been three years, but it feels like the last piece of a puzzle has fallen into place. The heat I feel. Home. The traffic I hear. Home. The colors I see. Home. The scents I smell. Home. The food I savor. Home. I’m home. Myiesha Jain is a Member of the Club.
AUGUST
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