In my hometown of Kottayam, anytime I walk into that revered old institution - Ann's Bakery - they ask me about my sister with whom I used to visit as a child and inquire after my mother's health.
In Vijayanagar in Bangalore - the closest town (in those days) to National Law School where I did my Master's - there was a shopkeeper who would reach for a bottle of Johnson's baby powder the minute he saw me approach. This was after he once asked how I managed to look after a baby while also managing my studies and I politely told him the powder was for myself.
In Kowdiar in Trivandrum, every time I asked for a kilo of njalippoovan bananas, the friendly fruit and vegetable vendor would ask how long my father-in-law was visiting.
So many little things add up to making a city feel like home. Places that you start thinking of as your 'happy place', people who know your name, storekeepers who know your preferences, auto or taxi drivers who know where you live...but for me, one definitive factor in calling a place home is the act of entering into the small-change covenant with a local store. It is the moment when a shopkeeper has developed enough trust and familiarity with you to waive the small change you owe on a bill.
I have lived my 41 years in a total of 7 cities with short interludes in a couple of others. Every city you call home gives you a set of memories, adds dimensions to your identity and in many little ways, stay within you long after you have moved from there. Your hometown, for instance is your first security blanket, the first picture that involuntarily springs to mind when you think of 'home.' And I am talking about typical small towns in India, the ones where people truly believe it takes a village to raise a child. Where you can be reasonably confident that even if you lose your meagre pocket money, some friendly Uncle or Aunty is going to ensure you get home safely. There are eyes watching you without your knowing it - which is why your first cigarette and first time bunking college to watch a movie with friends is duly reported to your parents. As you grow up you can't wait to move out of that place that has grown too small to contain your ambitions but for the rest of your life you feel a certain pull towards it - a wanting-to-return feeling that grows as your grow older. You may or may not act on it, but the pull is there as your little secret, a fantasy gem that you can take out, polish lovingly, hold and sigh and gently replace into the secret vaults of your consciousness without anyone ever seeing it.
If you had parents who had to move from city to city for their work, you learned early to adjust quickly to new environs. You were not bothered about packing, unpacking and finding your bearings - all you needed to be concerned about was finding the nearest bunch of kids to hang out with in the evenings and the nearest shop for when you were required to run errands. Then comes that first time you move out of home. It could be to a hostel for higher studies or a shared apartment or paying guest accommodation on your first job. For the first time in your life you learn to budget for food! Food! That commodity that magically appeared on the dining table at home at every meal time - yours to pick at, complain about, stuff yourself with and then tell your mom that was not what you had been craving when she asks if you have had enough. Suddenly no one is bothered about whether you ate. Ate enough. Ate something you liked (except again your mother when she calls at night to check on you). In retrospect, I strongly feel you can call yourself a 'grown up' only after you have had the experience of managing to feed yourself three solid meals a day, out of your own pocket, for at least three months, in a city you are not familiar with. A steady diet of soft drinks and potato chips does not count. I am talking about when you have moved past your first brush with gastritis and peptic ulcers and painfully realise that words like 'nutrition' and 'balanced meals' are not horror stories your mother, in collusion with your teachers, made up just to make you eat unpalatable food.
Your first adoptive city teaches you a hell of a lot about being responsibly independent, financially intelligent and emotionally guarded. It is also where you unexpectedly burst into tears over the coffee your mother used to make and the sibling you thought you could not stand. You make the friends who are probably going to be your substitute family for a life time. You learn to do without. You discover that there is only so much time you can sleep even if there is no one asking you to get up and study or go to work. You inwardly laugh at yourself the first time you opt for a packet of milk over a can of coke and grimly remind yourself to finish it before it goes bad. For one, you can't afford to waste that kind of money. And two, your body is going to be thankful. Dirty clothes don't clean themselves and it is easier to do your laundry in small batches than wait for your entire wardrobe to be emptied out. One step at a time, you walk towards a sorted adulthood.
When a promotion or marriage takes you to a new town, you enter a new chapter in your life. You already have the training. You just need to go through that process of making this new place feel like home. Little things add up. You have a favored supermarket and a favorite restaurant. You know all three short cuts as well as the long route to your house, place of work and your preferred mall. You still miss faces light up in recognition when they see you; you miss the welcoming smiles and conversations that stem from familiarity; you miss the feeling that you belong.And then one day the vegetable vendor, or the manager at the magazine store you frequent says: 'it's ok. You can adjust it next time.' Neither of you have the time or inclination to fish for change. Both of you know neither are going to keep track of that money. But you also know that because of that one gesture, you are going to prefer this shop over others the next time you need to buy something. You have reached the level of familiarity where buying from another shop seems like an act of betrayal, almost. For the price of small change, the shop keeper has bought your goodwill and your loyalty. But far more importantly for you, it is your signal that you have arrived. Home.
In Vijayanagar in Bangalore - the closest town (in those days) to National Law School where I did my Master's - there was a shopkeeper who would reach for a bottle of Johnson's baby powder the minute he saw me approach. This was after he once asked how I managed to look after a baby while also managing my studies and I politely told him the powder was for myself.
In Kowdiar in Trivandrum, every time I asked for a kilo of njalippoovan bananas, the friendly fruit and vegetable vendor would ask how long my father-in-law was visiting.
So many little things add up to making a city feel like home. Places that you start thinking of as your 'happy place', people who know your name, storekeepers who know your preferences, auto or taxi drivers who know where you live...but for me, one definitive factor in calling a place home is the act of entering into the small-change covenant with a local store. It is the moment when a shopkeeper has developed enough trust and familiarity with you to waive the small change you owe on a bill.
I have lived my 41 years in a total of 7 cities with short interludes in a couple of others. Every city you call home gives you a set of memories, adds dimensions to your identity and in many little ways, stay within you long after you have moved from there. Your hometown, for instance is your first security blanket, the first picture that involuntarily springs to mind when you think of 'home.' And I am talking about typical small towns in India, the ones where people truly believe it takes a village to raise a child. Where you can be reasonably confident that even if you lose your meagre pocket money, some friendly Uncle or Aunty is going to ensure you get home safely. There are eyes watching you without your knowing it - which is why your first cigarette and first time bunking college to watch a movie with friends is duly reported to your parents. As you grow up you can't wait to move out of that place that has grown too small to contain your ambitions but for the rest of your life you feel a certain pull towards it - a wanting-to-return feeling that grows as your grow older. You may or may not act on it, but the pull is there as your little secret, a fantasy gem that you can take out, polish lovingly, hold and sigh and gently replace into the secret vaults of your consciousness without anyone ever seeing it.
If you had parents who had to move from city to city for their work, you learned early to adjust quickly to new environs. You were not bothered about packing, unpacking and finding your bearings - all you needed to be concerned about was finding the nearest bunch of kids to hang out with in the evenings and the nearest shop for when you were required to run errands. Then comes that first time you move out of home. It could be to a hostel for higher studies or a shared apartment or paying guest accommodation on your first job. For the first time in your life you learn to budget for food! Food! That commodity that magically appeared on the dining table at home at every meal time - yours to pick at, complain about, stuff yourself with and then tell your mom that was not what you had been craving when she asks if you have had enough. Suddenly no one is bothered about whether you ate. Ate enough. Ate something you liked (except again your mother when she calls at night to check on you). In retrospect, I strongly feel you can call yourself a 'grown up' only after you have had the experience of managing to feed yourself three solid meals a day, out of your own pocket, for at least three months, in a city you are not familiar with. A steady diet of soft drinks and potato chips does not count. I am talking about when you have moved past your first brush with gastritis and peptic ulcers and painfully realise that words like 'nutrition' and 'balanced meals' are not horror stories your mother, in collusion with your teachers, made up just to make you eat unpalatable food.
Your first adoptive city teaches you a hell of a lot about being responsibly independent, financially intelligent and emotionally guarded. It is also where you unexpectedly burst into tears over the coffee your mother used to make and the sibling you thought you could not stand. You make the friends who are probably going to be your substitute family for a life time. You learn to do without. You discover that there is only so much time you can sleep even if there is no one asking you to get up and study or go to work. You inwardly laugh at yourself the first time you opt for a packet of milk over a can of coke and grimly remind yourself to finish it before it goes bad. For one, you can't afford to waste that kind of money. And two, your body is going to be thankful. Dirty clothes don't clean themselves and it is easier to do your laundry in small batches than wait for your entire wardrobe to be emptied out. One step at a time, you walk towards a sorted adulthood.
When a promotion or marriage takes you to a new town, you enter a new chapter in your life. You already have the training. You just need to go through that process of making this new place feel like home. Little things add up. You have a favored supermarket and a favorite restaurant. You know all three short cuts as well as the long route to your house, place of work and your preferred mall. You still miss faces light up in recognition when they see you; you miss the welcoming smiles and conversations that stem from familiarity; you miss the feeling that you belong.And then one day the vegetable vendor, or the manager at the magazine store you frequent says: 'it's ok. You can adjust it next time.' Neither of you have the time or inclination to fish for change. Both of you know neither are going to keep track of that money. But you also know that because of that one gesture, you are going to prefer this shop over others the next time you need to buy something. You have reached the level of familiarity where buying from another shop seems like an act of betrayal, almost. For the price of small change, the shop keeper has bought your goodwill and your loyalty. But far more importantly for you, it is your signal that you have arrived. Home.
I have lived in Kochi for 7 years now. This is the city my children call home. Where the auto and taxi drivers know where I live. Where my regular boutique knows my size and the service center knows the make of my washing machine. Where the staff at the supermarket hand out free lollipops to my children while I wait at the check out counter. Where I have entered the small change covenant many times over. Which is why I now call Kochi, home.
