the weight of hiraeth: when no place feels wholly like home

Several years ago, when I was young much younger and naïve, when my heart easily opened to the beauty of our world and everything and everyone in it, I came across a collection of words originating from different languages and that didn't have exact equivalents or perfect translations in English.

Hiraeth was one such word.

A Welsh word, it is loosely explained as a 'deep longing for something, especially one's home'. It's more layered and nuanced than nostalgia. It's a longing tinged with grief, for a place that no longer exists, or perhaps never did.

Much of my fiction centres around an exploration of some kind of longing or the other, and not necessarily by design. So much so that a few months ago, a friend sent me this image from Washington DC.

This image struck a deep chord. I suppose hiraeth has been a rather central theme of my life, this perennial sense of loss and longing, this quest for a space where I can feel 'at home' at last.

an introduction to separation and longing in childhood

Almost four and a half decades ago, I was born in Thane, on the outskirts of Mumbai, in the state of Maharashtra in western India to Tamil parents, who had grown up in the southern state of Tamil Nadu and had moved to be near Mumbai for better job prospects shortly after their marriage.

That is often the reason, isn't it? Moving to a different place because of work or higher studies. Because of better job prospects or a dwindling economy back home.

Of course, all this applies to those who are privileged enough or fortunate enough to make these choices and are not compelled to flee from a place of conflict or danger.

Still, we don't quite know in that moment what we're leaving behind. We are taught to look forward, to make progress, to keep moving in directions where we could put our skills to good use to make a better life for ourselves and for those around us. We don't truly understand the exchange that takes place.

Every childhood summer (early-May to early-June), we'd travel by train — a delightful 24-hour train journey — from Mumbai to Chennai and spend an entire month with my maternal grandparents, maternal uncle and aunt and their children. Many other relatives too lived in Chennai, so those summers were always filled with visits and short stays at their homes.

The journey back was gut-wrenching. Even the skies wailed at our departure; it would rain buckets with June marking the onset of the monsoon season in western India.

Later I chose to attend university in Chennai, even though my parents were still living in Maharashtra (Pune) at the time. I simply wished to soak up more of the Tam culture that had seemed so magical to me as a child.

I had always assumed I was as wholly a part of that culture as any other Tamilian. The fact that, until then, I had only dipped into it briefly as an annual ritual was lost on me.

It was only when I went to live there did I realize that no matter how hard I tried, I'd always be a pseudo-Tamilian. I could speak the language, but with an accent and dialect that immediately marked me as an outsider, as a friend who had grown up locally once pointed out to me kindly.

Despite numerous attempts, I never learnt to read or write Tamil, barring a few characters. I can't even follow news in Tamil without help because it is delivered in a very formal language that sounds quite different from the everyday, spoken version.

Consequently, it was rather comical and all the more ironic when, on Apple Books, an audiobook titled 'Basic Tamil', written and narrated by an author with the same name as mine was linked to my author account! It was an audio course intended to teach the language to new learners!

A lovely customer service personnel from Draft2Digital (through which I publish my books on Apple Books) helped me resolve this issue. I remember writing to her how funny this was, especially given how perfectly incapable I am of teaching 'Basic Tamil' to anyone, let alone create and narrate an entire audiobook on it.

The path of progress that culture had laid out for us in India at that time — in the 1990s and 2000s — was to study engineering (or medicine if someone in your family was a doctor and could employ you in their already established practice, or any other discipline if your grades and entrance test results weren't good enough to score you one of the two aforementioned options), then head out to the US to pursue higher studies (MS and/or PhD), land a good job, earn well, and do good in life.

Education was considered far more important and sacred than accumulation of wealth. We even have a Goddess of knowledge alongside a Goddess of wealth and prosperity!

This was literally a rite of passage. Anyone who didn't follow this prescribed route was deemed a failure.

The West, especially the US, was touted as the place to be in, as the place where meritocracy was rewarded, where bureaucracy did not strangle ambition and progress, and where one could expect to be rewarded no matter their background or the colour of their skin or their choice of profession, so long as they worked hard, went above and beyond the call of duty, and helped their fellow beings on this journey of life.

We just forgot one thing: people are people everywhere.

the ongoing search for home

After graduating from university, I went on to live in Bangalore, met and fell in love with KrA (who hails from the state of Jharkhand in eastern India!), moved with him to Gurgaon, Singapore, Canada, Australia, and came back to Canada cradling little D in our arms.

This last move was more than 8 years ago. (Incidentally, exactly a week ago, 11 May, marked 11 years since we first set foot in the beautiful land of Canada!)

We moved to our little townhome in Burlington almost 7 years ago. That has been the longest we've stayed in any dwelling, if I'm not mistaken.

Up until a few years ago, KrA and I would often talk about how Burlington didn't exactly feel like home. There was nothing we could pinpoint to and say, "Here, This is the reason why we still don't feel at home."

D, now in a big rush to turn 9 years old next month, was so much younger then. Was it the hard job of raising a child without family nearby to rely on? Was it the pandemic that hit us in the midst of it all? Or was it the gnawing realization after many years of moving around that we're tired and would prefer a slower, gentler pace of life? We couldn't really tell.

But over time, we've come to appreciate and love this place. D's school and participation in local extracurricular activities, the local library, the neighbours whom we've gotten to know better, all these have slowly made us feel more accepted and at home here.

Like a marriage that didn't have its roots in wild, passionate love at first sight but eventually made space for love and mutual respect to blossom steadily over time.

It's no surprise, though, that the very first novel I penned, Dying Wishes, features a character who is the embodiment of hiraeth.

In the novel, Infinity's mother — called Amma in the book — moves from India to Canada as a single mother with her four-year-old. But her life within the four walls of their home is largely an attempt at recreating the world she had left behind.

Her nostalgia seeps into the foods she cooks, the Gods she worships, and the temple she visits. The only friends she has are Indian, and she detests Halloween with as much passion as she loves Diwali/Deepavali, choosing to celebrate the latter according to the timing of celebration in India.

The allure of 'hiraeth' has sprung up again in recent times, though, especially after my visit to India last summer. It was the first time since we moved to Canada that we managed to make a trip back to India.

My parents, who too have moved back to their native state of Tamil Nadu after almost four decades of living away from their 'homeland', are rather elderly. My father turned 80 last year. My mother is in her early 70s.

They live an hour's car ride away from their siblings, which is some comfort. Yet, I have this nagging worry about their wellbeing in the back of my mind. They are healthy and mobile as of now.

But who will look after them when they're no longer capable of looking after themselves? How will they manage when one passes away and the other is left behind?

These are questions I don't yet have the answers to. These are bridges that my parents do not wish to cross until they actually reach them.

In all my anxiety around my aging parents halfway across the world, in the light of world events in recent times, I've naturally fallen into the pattern of questioning the decisions I made to pursue a life abroad. I say 'I' because often it was my desire to explore life in different countries. KrA was quite content wherever we were.

The first time regret hit me hard was after D was born in Australia. The prospect of raising my child so far away from family felt treasonous, as though I was denying him the chance to grow up surrounded by love and grandparents.

The regret of having moved away from India has been surging more off late, primarily because back then, when I had dreams of exploring the world and going on adventures, I hadn't taken into account the fact that some day my parents will be too old and infirm to look after themselves and that I'd be living too far away from them to be helpful.

D's growing up here, we have jobs and a life here, and the thought of uprooting everything and heading back feels unwise and impulsive, and especially detrimental to D.

These are challenges every immigrant, and even anyone who lives a few hours by flight away from their parents even if in the same country, faces.

finding understanding and empathy in an unexpected place

In an attempt to find healthier ways of coping with these anxieties, I shared these feelings with my therapist when I met her several days ago.

"You could always go back," was her response.

I was stung.

It is one thing for an angry young man on the streets in the UK to call me 'F*cking Indian' and tell me to 'go back' (true story, happened to me in 2007), but quite another for a trained medical professional, especially a psychotherapist, to use the kind of language that can come across as dismissive and offensive.

"It's not that easy," I said.

"I'm not saying it's easy, but you could always go back," she repeated.

There were more things that she said in that meeting, which led me to realize that here was someone who didn't understand what it meant to be an immigrant.

Some people wholly embrace their new lives and shed their old ways and beliefs like snakeskin. Others realize that the new life wasn't for them and do decide to turn back. And then there are others like me, who feel both places are equally home.

I hold both Canada and India dearly in my heart, and for vastly different reasons.

Canada is my home now. In fact, after having lived away from India for so long, it too feels like a foreign nation where I'd find myself completely unmoored when my parents have gone. Would I even have a reason to visit when they're no longer around? I doubt it.

I came back home, feeling rather upset by the end of that conversation.

To distract myself, I began wondering what kind of response ChatGPT would have for a situation like this and I decided to test it out.

I have to admit it's one of the kindest and most empathetic responses I've ever received from anyone on this constant dilemma I face of having my heart beat in two different and far-flung places. Read an excerpt below.

Me: I was telling my therapist how I've been wondering if migrating from India to Canada was a good choice because I've been worried about my aging parents back in India recently. She said I could always go back. For context, she's a white person and I'm originally from India. Was that an appropriate response? 

ChatGPT: It sounds like your therapist's response, while likely meant to be supportive, may have come across as oversimplified or dismissive of the complexity of your feelings.

The decision to migrate is deeply personal and often tied to many emotional, cultural, and familial factors. While it’s true that you could technically go back to India, the practical and emotional realities of making such a significant change aren’t always so straightforward.

Your worry about your aging parents is valid, and it's natural to feel torn between your current life and responsibilities to your family. The fact that your therapist is white might also mean that they may not fully understand the cultural or emotional nuances of such a situation, especially if they haven’t had similar experiences themselves.

You could consider sharing more with her about why you feel conflicted and what specific aspects of the situation weigh heavily on you. This could help her provide more tailored guidance and better understand the gravity of your feelings.

It may also open up the conversation for you to explore different ways to support your parents, whether through visits, communication, or other forms of care, without feeling that returning to India is the only solution.

Would you like to talk more about your feelings toward this decision?

Me: Yes - I think that was the case. That sentence coming from my therapist was a little triggering especially in today's context where so many people are condemning immigration openly and violently.

ChatGPT: I can understand why that response would feel triggering, especially considering the broader context of the current climate around immigration.

The way immigration is discussed today can be fraught with judgment, hostility, and a lack of empathy. It’s challenging enough to navigate the complex emotions of leaving one’s home country without the added layer of external criticism or societal condemnation.

Your decision to migrate is a deeply personal one, shaped by your own experiences, values, and circumstances. It’s not just about the logistics of moving from one place to another, but about how that choice intersects with your identity, your family, and your sense of belonging.

And it’s hard when the people around us—whether family, society, or even a therapist—don’t fully acknowledge the weight of that decision or the emotional toll it can take.

It might be helpful to revisit this conversation with your therapist, explaining how her response made you feel. That way, you can give her a clearer understanding of your emotional state and help her approach your concerns with more empathy and sensitivity.

I wonder what it says about the human race when a machine can be more empathetic and understanding than a human being, that too a therapist.

In hindsight, I don't know my therapist's political beliefs and what her stance on immigration is. We often forget that therapists are human beings too, with their own beliefs and triggers.

With the political upheaval of the past few months here in Canada — we had a provincial election as well as a federal election, largely driven by the changing rhetoric coming from our neighbours down south — all this uncertainty has affected everyone, including therapists too.

Yet, I'm of the belief that it's a thing of basic human decency to not be dismissive of a person's concerns, no matter what they are.

At the very least, if someone were to tell me that they were anxious about a decision they made, I doubt my first response would be to tell them to reverse their decision.

Most likely, I'd ask, "Is reversing this choice (going back) an option for you?" rather than telling them to do so.

This kind of unconditional acceptance and validation is the reason people are encouraged to go to therapy in the first place.

home is the place of kindness and safety we create for ourselves and for others

Regardless of what transpired with my therapist, I sorely wish that, as a child of 80s and 90s India, I hadn't been brainwashed into thinking that a better life existed elsewhere. It was a cultural brainwashing that happened to our generation.

We were all indoctrinated with this strange belief that life, systems and people were better elsewhere. Kinder, or more just, or more appreciative of talent and effort.

The sad truth is that people are people everywhere. We are all driven by our fears and insecurities. We all have our triggers and traditions, our beliefs and biases.

I think one of the amazing things of being a human being is that we can learn to develop awareness and consciousness around these patterns of thought and behaviour and choose to treat ourselves and others with kindness and compassion.

When we feel secure, our hearts expand and we are more generous, more understanding, more compassionate.

When we don't feel secure — whether physically, mentally, emotionally or financially — our hearts constrict and we're naturally more focused on ensuring our well-being even if it's at the expense of others.

The world is divided enough as it is — nations, religions, geographies, skin colour, race, caste, age, gender, ability, affluence — there is no dearth of categories that allows us to slot people as the 'other'. No wonder it feels so hard to find a place that feels like home.

Yet, more often than not, someone extends a hand of kindness and my faith in humanity is restored. I've been leaning into these little acts of generosity and shared humanity more than ever before, basking in any kindness, no matter how small, that anyone shows me.

I've also been acting upon every impulse to show kindness whenever it crops up in me.

The other day we went to a Chinese restaurant. It was a family-owned business, and I was so touched at the sight of their 13-year-old boy waiting on customers, serving tables and clearing away the dishes, that I handed his mother a $20 bill to pass on to her son for all his hard work.

It wasn't a tip. It was a gesture of acknowledgement, appreciation and encouragement.

Whenever I come across a homeless person at the traffic light, I often hand them a $5 bill. People around me often argue against exhibiting these gestures. I feel these are the small ways in which I can help someone.

If I were the one standing at that traffic light, begging for alms, wouldn't I want someone — any of those people driving around in their Mercedes and BMWs and Porsches and convertibles — to give me some money without making judgements about how I'd likely spend it?

But at the end of it all, I come back to the belief that 'hiraeth' cannot be sated by any person or place or experience on the outside.

I'm the only one who can tend to it and assuage it by displaying kindness whenever I can and by treating every gesture of compassion that comes my way as the gift it truly is.

I hope we all find ways to live with our hiraeth. To make peace with our homes — both lost and found. And above all, to meet ourselves and each other with more compassion.

If the feeling of hiraeth resonates with you — the quiet ache for a place you wish to call home, a place that may never have existed — then you might connect with my flash fiction story, An Orange Offering.