From Confused to Confident

By Piya Kochhar

It's 3 a.m. I have insomnia. I can't believe I'm in Delhi. Just a few months ago I was at a bar in Manhattan sipping a whiskey and soda and taking the subway home to my apartment in Brooklyn. And now here I am in India, where I plan to stay...a year? Indefinitely? Who knows?

What am I doing here? The best I can explain it is like this: I'm 31 years old. I had this great job in New York making radio documentaries and then suddenly, last year, something shifted in me. Suddenly, it seemed vitally important that I start doing all the things I always said I'd do when I "grow up"—like write a book or screenplay about my zany family and get an apartment and live with my Nani (who I think of more as a best friend than a grandmom). So I quit my job, took a deep breath, and I moved to Delhi.

And now, late at night, when everyone's asleep and I'm the only one awake, I'm thinking about weird abstract things like, "What exactly does 'home' mean?"

It suddenly feels like a really strange concept that I can't quite get a handle on.

I feel like there are so many places I consider home, and at the same time, I don't have any place to call a home. Because of my dad's job as a banker, my family moved from country to country every few years.

All of these places feel like home in my memory. But I guess if I really had to pick a place, I'd pick the small white house on a tree-lined street in New Delhi. This street was called Vasant Vihar and the house was my granddad’s. My family returned to him and my grandmom every summer and winter no matter where in the world we were posted.

I loved getting off the plane and smelling that unique Indian-airport smell of cloth, burning fires, wet paper and hot tea. My granddad and his housekeeper Krishen would be waiting for us outside of the terminal, and I'd always spot my granddad first because he wore a furry brown cap, a hunting vest and sandals that showed his plump, clean toes.

I remember how it would be late, late at night (like it is right now), and as we drove home, the streets would be empty, except for a few sleeping dogs who would wake up and chase our car half-heartedly. The gates to our street had two dumpsters on each end and the smell of rotting vegetables meant that in just a few moments we'd be driving down the street to the smallest, oldest house in the row of big shiny houses.

When we got to the house, Krishen would open the old black gate, and we'd drive under the steel awning with the hanging dense green vines. The car would go silent, and I'd hear a key turn in the doorway upstairs, my grandmother eagerly awaiting our arrival. The sound of crickets and the scent of night flowers blooming permeated the air. At the same time, our suitcases scraped softly as they were unloaded. Then, my grandfather would smile as he wheezed and say, "We're home."

Waking up that first morning back in Vasant Vihar, I'd feel the light on my face from the big open windows in my grandparents' room. My sister and I would be on a mattress on the floor by their bed. My grandmom would have on religious bhajans (songs) playing on an old tape-recorder. I could hear her in the kitchen, and smell the fresh oranges from which Krishen squeezed all the juice, a beverage so rich and deep in color that it was almost a shame to drink it.

Even before opening my eyes, I'd hear my grandfather breathing and chewing his tobacco. His pencil scratched against a newspaper as he completed a crossword puzzle. I loved this moment so much that I'd keep my eyes closed just a little longer. From the outside, I'd hear the vegetable vendors screaming from their bikes: “Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes...fresh, fresh, fresh." (And today, even as I'm writing this, I feel like I'm there).

Sadly, that house doesn't exist anymore. When my granddad passed away two years ago, my dad sold the house to some developers who turned it into an apartment building. I haven't been back to the neighborhood since my granddad's funeral.

I'm excited about being back in Delhi. I have some grand plans to rescue my grandma from her alcoholic son, and embark on a series of adventures with her in which we watch lots of romantic Hindi movies and eat lots of delicious snacks. My grandma and I are living in a small 2-bedroom apartment with lots of windows. She doesn't know that I'm planning on finding her a suitor who will come over in the evenings to drink tea with her and tell her she's beautiful (which she is—the woman has the most amazing skin I've ever seen). Our neighbor is a firecracker of an 80-year-old lady who lives by herself with her butler and young maid. She, my grandma and I are already on our way to becoming great friends.

I wouldn’t kid you. I'm nervous about being back and about not being able to go home to Vasant Vihar. I think until now, I could somehow pretend that everything was the same. But it's not the same. And I guess part of life is accepting that and moving on. I'm looking forward to creating new memories and having new places to call home.

I'm also really proud and amazed to call New York my home. I don't know how that happened. When I first came to New York, I hated it, and I left. Then I came back and didn't plan to stay long, but I ended up staying three years. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with it and now I consider it my home also.

I guess that's what I'm hoping to do by returning to India—to make it feel like home again too. I think I will have many places I call home, and I want these places to be filled with a diverse group of friends, quiet coffee-shops and bars where the bartender knows my favorite drink. I want home to be a place where I can walk out the door and talk to a stranger who tells me a story that I'll remember for days, if not a lifetime. I also desire a place with lots of greenery, flowers and maybe some water nearby. And if I make friends with the crotchety old man who owns a musty book store, all the better.

Other plans for India this year? I want to write, write, write. I want to do some radio and see if I can make a living creating wonderful projects instead of sitting tied to a desk dreaming of creating wonderful projects. I want Nani and I to have lots of fun. And sure, it would be nice to meet my soulmate or even a nice guy to share a few adventures with.

Of course, right now, I have no clue how I'm going to pull any of this off. India feels so foreign to me unlike when I was a child. I haven't even visited for five years or ever really lived here, and I feel out of my depth and overwhelmed. How can I make this feel like home and do all the grand things I hope to do? It feels like I'm doing everything for the first time. Good. This will keep my spirit sharp. My gut says that this is going to be tough but in the end, for the first time in my life, I will feel entirely full and rich with experience and life. I don't know what twists and turns are ahead...but I have full faith that this is the right decision even though right now it is the scariest, un-easiest thing I've ever done. I just have to remind myself to keep breathing and let life unfold as it will. I am setting into motion a chain reaction of events, and I can’t even picture its intricacy, beauty, surprise and depth.

Piya Kochhar is a 31-year-old writer, who has decided to relocate to India for some time. She considers both New York and New Delhi home. To read more about her adventures, visit www.nanilovestory.blogspot.com.

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