Where I belong

It's that time of year in the UK. I was returning after another disappointing day at university, working on my dissertation. The clock is ticking, and my anxiety is skyrocketing. I rested my head on the cold window of the 2-Foxhill bus, a regular service I rely on. The bus was particularly full this evening; it had already turned dark by half past five. I put my headphones on and browsed through YouTube, hoping to feel less miserable about my day.

While scrolling through millions of videos, I found a YouTube Short featuring a young man in his mid-twenties singing a song with such grace. The title read, Chudithar Aninthu. In that fleeting second, my mind drifted through a hundred different memories. Suddenly, I was in the backseat of a 2007 blue Toyota Yaris, resting my cheek on the backrest of one of the front seats. My father's firm hand was on the steering wheel, my mother sat beside him, and my younger brother was in the backseat with me. The car's radio was playing the same song—Chudithar Aninthu vantha sorgame. My mother was humming softly, and my father joined her. We were on our way to Mabella Vegetable Market for our biweekly grocery run, speeding through Muscat’s smooth highways. By then, that car had truly become a part of our family.

In that moment, I felt a deep sense of warmth. It was as if I’d found solace amidst chaos, peace amidst the recklessness. I snapped back to reality as the young man finished singing. I turned my phone off, looked out the window, and realized just how much I missed my family.

The confusion and chaos of early adulthood are starting to take hold. The weight of self-imposed pressure and the constant feeling of falling short of expectations has already left me drained—before the real challenges have even begun.

The never-ending race of early adulthood—the deadlines, the pressure of securing a job, and the flashy nights in Bath—suddenly felt so distant from my roots. I remembered those simple nights in our family quarters in Sohar. We would pull the mattress from the bedroom to the hall, dim the lights, and listen to A.R. Rahman’s ’90s classics. My parents would play Spider Solitaire on our brand-new Dell laptop, which looked like a brick compared to today’s sleek ones. I'd be busting moves to songs from Kadhalar Dhinam. As I now struggle with the horrendous PCB design software on my laptop, staring at the screen for hours, I think about those simpler times.

Today, my friends compliment me on the food I cook for them, but they should try what Amma makes. Even the simplest dishes she prepares in minutes taste like heaven. I can't wait for the next time I get to sit on the floor with my family, eating steaming hot matta rice with the most delicious dal and potato or fish fry. “Jishnu, chop a few slices of onion,” my father would say, before launching into the story of how he met my mother, with Kadhal Kaditham playing in the background.

Nowadays, I see my parents only through my phone screen. At times, I feel ashamed to face them—a feeling of not living up to their expectations. Often, I avoid calling, but I think about them constantly. I can see the signs of age on my father—his once thick hair showing strands of grey, his eyes sunken and tired, with a few white hairs peeking out from his bushy mustache. My mother, with slight wrinkles on her beautiful skin, asks with tired eyes, “What did you cook today?”

One of my biggest sources of motivation, as I’m stepping into my mid-twenties, is the memory of my young parents. Amma, a lean, young teacher, would come home from school in one of her few saris. She wasn’t as fashionable as the other teachers, but every day she’d surprise me with a chocolate and a book from her school library. She rarely took a break; I’ve always seen her work tirelessly and still smile with such innocence.

Acha, the man I aspire to be like in many ways, always wore an oversized plain shirt and blue denim jeans with worn-out ends. I remember how I used to feel whenever he came back from work, tired and drenched in sweat. He had a certain pleasant smell that I can still remember. I’d hug my father tight as he walked in, and he’d say, “Let me take a shower at least,” but I wouldn’t let go. He’d hug me back just as tightly, and I’d feel happy.

The memory of them working hard for the family inspires me to this day.

Another member of my family, one I rarely talk about, is my brother. From the infant who used to sleep on my shoulder, to the little boy who would hold my chin as he slept, to the teenager with a deep voice and faint traces of manliness over his upper lip—I’ve seen him in every phase. But he’ll always be my little one.

I reached my bus stop thinking about all this, a smile on my face, feeling something that even the most accomplished writers struggle to put into words. I felt grounded, connected to the person I am beneath it all—the person who has a family to go back to. I walked home with that same spirit, listening to Enakke Enakka from Jeans.

Note: This is deeply personal. Sometimes, writing down your thoughts captures a feeling, allowing it to linger just a little longer than it might naturally last. This is one of those moments.