Sukhmani Malhi

Is my hometown

The small city where my grandfather's family

was given a piece of land by the government

When he got off a train at 11 years old

The same city where 5 decades later

On a damp September afternoon

his third daughter bore him his first grandchild

Which was me

Or is it the land that sleeps

on the other side of that train ride

In a different country

Still waiting for his return

Is my hometown that place

or the feeling I had

When we turned the corner that led to the big white house In which I was more special

Than I actually am

That’s where the sunset lasts for hours

Where the mosquitoes are unrelenting and the monkeys notorious

Where the sound of Azan on loudspeakers and kids playing past their curfew is the only thing heard at twilight

Where we took cycle rickshaw rides

to go have chaat which tasted like it was made by the Gods Where I found an old book of short stories by Khushwant Singh On a bookshelf, one sunny day and no one saw me for hours

It was where summer days were spent devouring lychees

And nights spent reading under lamplight

Playing games, telling stories

And dragging mattresses up the stairs

to sleep on the terrace

It is where I saw my grandparents burn

Was it my hometown

and did it stop being that

When the last thread that tied me to it

Snapped like the crackle of a funeral pyre

Is it still a town if it is bursting at the seams

Trying to be more?

Is it still home if I never return?

they are still in that row house

When I picture them

But it wasn’t as big or as white as I’d remembered it

The last time I saw it

I didn’t know it would be the last

They are in there, bickering with each other,

My grandmother’s kidney bean curry on the stove

and my grandfather sitting with his glass of Old Monk

and a bowl of peanuts in front of the TV.

So maybe

They are my home

And the history that ties me to that town

Will outlast me

and every other place I tie myself to.