A Different Homecoming

By Jaya Pandey

This year’s India trip was not the usual one. It began not with excitement, but with a sense of absence. 

For years, the moment I’d book the ticket or start planning, the excitement would begin—the list, the conversations about the trip, and my sister’s jokes that my mom had already started counting down the days.

My mom passed away last March. Although I had been visiting often over the past few years, I couldn’t go for a full year this time. I returned for her first death anniversary. It was important for me to spend time with my sister and my dad. The rituals weren’t what mattered to me, but being together, sharing our grief, and trying to fill the void. It was just us—no one else could truly understand our loss and grief. 

The tickets were booked, and the day finally came. I missed my mom badly even before the trip—she was always my companion while shopping and packing. Everyone says the first trip home after losing a parent is the hardest. For me, getting ready for the trip was the hardest part. This time, there were no calls or messages from Amma. I missed her voice, especially during transit—she always checked in and reminded me to eat. For her first death anniversary, we didn’t hold a big gathering like many do, but it was important for us sisters to be with our father. Honoring our mother’s wishes, we served meals at an old age home and fed children in a school. None of the people there knew who my mother was, so I talked about her and listened to their stories. I went there to serve food, but I came back home rattled and thinking about old age. Their stories still linger in my mind. In that way, the day offered a new perspective on life. Those few days with dad and sisters made it clear how deeply grief and loss were affecting all of us. For the first time, there were no plans, no travel, no shopping, no rushing to markets or family photoshoots. I think we needed that stillness to reset, acknowledge our grief, and begin to heal.

It was a different trip without Amma being by my side. My niece stepped in and took on some of Amma’s role. One rainy day, we took the metro without a plan and went to the city, spending time walking and enjoying a nice Italian meal in a beautiful restaurant in the heart of Bangalore. In that quiet space, we had deep talks about politics, education, and life. It was a simple evening, but seeing the world through a 19-year-old’s eyes reminded me of how much we can learn from younger minds when we truly listen. I was impressed by her clarity of thought. Growing up with constant access to the internet and social media, she’s far more informed than I was at her age.

This trip, I had ample time, which let me observe day-to-day life—my sisters’ routines, their values, their surroundings. I got to know more about their world. I spent my time interacting with watchmen, cooks, drivers, vegetable vendors, and other household helpers. They are diligently doing their work. And when you have time to listen to their stories, one can witness the hardship. The ambition these people have—even with hardship—is incredible. They are working harder to send their children far and beyond to experience school and travel. They work longer hours, and some of them live far from their families. The men usually leave their families in the village, work harder, earn, and send money home. 

During Covid, I began to question my choices—especially my overflowing closet filled with shoes and sarees. I made a conscious decision to stop collecting sarees. Instead, I chose to wear each one I owned and give away the ones I knew I would never wear. On this trip, that shift in mindset stayed with me. I decided to collect clothes and carry them for these families, rather than placing them in recycle bins here—even if it meant paying for an extra suitcase.

This time, I was more out and about on my own, using public transport, which gave me a chance to see the real India in a new way. I was impressed by how aware everyday people are of global affairs. On a bus ride in Bangalore, I noticed most passengers using their smartphones to pay, while there I was, paying cash for the fare. With my accent and body language, the conductor quickly figured out I wasn’t a local.

Between dropping off and picking up passengers at every stop, the conductor and I chatted about both his life and mine. He even asked me about U.S. foreign policy, slightly joking about our recent election. He was very curious about how we Indians view elections, candidates, and what it means for Indians in the U.S. and for India. The driver and conductor were also chatting in their native language, and while I didn’t catch the full context, it was clear they were very much in tune with one another. Meanwhile, the driver was reading a newspaper at red lights—fully up to date on world events.

I could observe the life of regular people more closely. Eating out is totally different from what it was years ago. India has 28 states and 8 Union Territories, and each one has its own special cuisines. There’s so much variety that even if we ate a different dish every week, we’d still have more to try than we could in a lifetime. That’s why we never really needed to try food from other countries—and those foreign options were not available to common people anyway. Now, eating out is a delight in India. Everything is available, even in smaller towns. It’s amazing how creative the restaurants are with their menus, and how eating out has become an option for everybody. You’ll find everything—from extremely expensive to very affordable options—for everyone. I visited my favorite café in Bangalore at midnight, and it was still packed. People work in all shifts there—there’s no real distinction between night and day. 

And the street food in India? That’s a whole different conversation.

My trip happened to be during Holi—a festival I hadn’t experienced in years. Growing up, Holi was a vibrant, carefree celebration, but this time, something felt different. I noticed how much childhood itself has changed. The joy and spontaneity of festivals seem dimmed by academic pressure, especially with exams looming in February and March. In Raipur, I saw families gather briefly to mark the occasion, but by noon, it was all quiet. No bustling streets, no lively house visits. The traditional spirit is slowly fading, perhaps replaced by a more contained, apartment-style celebration. I used to feel like my kids were missing out by not growing up in India—but now I see, change is everywhere. Childhood is evolving, not just in one place, but all over the world. It breaks my heart to see children so stressed about studies or the ambitions to do things. I wish—I hope—I am wrong with that assumption.

Do you ever find yourself missing the simplicity of your own childhood?

Growing up in North India as a woman, safety was always a constant concern. Whether it was walking on the street or using public transport, we were taught to always be alert, always cautious. One of the highlights of my first trip to Chennai in the late ‘90s was seeing an entire section of the bus reserved for women. It felt empowering, like an acknowledgment of a long-standing issue. What stood out even more was how safe I felt walking the streets in parts of South India. I began to understand not just the cultural differences, but also the deeply rooted religious values in the South that shape behavior and attitudes.

In Bengaluru, the Karnataka government has introduced free bus rides for local women, a move that not only supports mobility and independence but also sends a powerful message of inclusion. These initiatives—reserved spaces, subsidized or free travel, and safer public environments—may seem small on the surface, but they make a big difference in everyday life.

This trip made me look at India differently. Not because of the changes but because I was finally ready to see. I don’t think I was looking for answers or trying to fill the void, but in those three weeks amidst familiar streets and new perspectives, I found space to mourn for my loss, time to grieve, and the courage to begin again.

The segment also explored the idea that being a true friend isn’t about shielding them from your struggles. It’s about allowing them to be an active participant in your life.

During my school and college years, I had two best friends—one in California and the other in Bangalore, India. We all had many classmates and friends growing up in our town, attending the same schools through college. However, after college and marriage, some of us moved away and became consumed with life, losing touch with classmates. Years later, WhatsApp reconnected many of us, but the “friendship,” whatever little we had, faded as we no longer had much in common beyond our shared past. It felt like we had outgrown those relationships.

I’m lucky to have stayed in touch with these two friends and their families back home. I won’t lie—it took effort. I was often the one making the first call or organizing visits, but they always reciprocated in every way they could. I don’t wait for them to call me; I reach out when I miss them or when they cross my mind. These two women were a part of my early “village.” We had different personalities, came from different backgrounds, and had different aspirations, but we valued and appreciated each other. We never tried to change one another, always focusing on the positive aspects of our friendship. With old friendships, time and distance don’t seem to matter much—you just pick up right where you left off.

Though we lead different lives now, think differently, and live far apart, we can talk about anything and everything without fear of judgment. We share our fears, ask for advice, vent when we need to, and support each other through all of life’s ups and downs.

My friend from California visited me last fall. Though we had met many times before, this time, she came with no agenda—no plans, no kids, no husband. We didn’t have anything planned—it was just a weekend of hanging out. I decided to show her Boston my way. For two days, we walked for miles, talked about everything under the sun, and reflected on our lives. At one point, she said, “High school and college friends are different—they get you, they understand you, and there’s no pretense.” I didn’t fully agree with her, and I reminded her how lucky we were to have this with each other. Not everyone gets that kind of connection with their old friends. Though we have always been different people, we’ve always admired and respected each other for who we are. I pointed out that so many of our school friends don’t meet each other this often.

By the way, while I was nurturing my “village,” another meaningful friendship was quietly blossoming. Little did I know that this friendship would eventually lead to marriage 11 years later, enriching my and my sister’s lives in unexpected ways and adding a whole new dimension to my “village.”

I have a circle of friends, each connecting with me in unique and meaningful ways. Some share my love for music and poetry, while others bond with me over our shared passion for sarees. Some are activists, while many have children with special needs. Some of them live nearby, while others are scattered across the globe. All of them hold a special place in my heart—nothing more, nothing less.

While my sisters are my unwavering support system, there are certain things only these friends can truly understand. The ones I’m connected with through poetry, literature, and ghazals hold a particularly exceptional significance in my life. With them, I can lose myself in the rhythm of words and music, forgetting all my worries. Those conversations and moments together help me find the strength to navigate life’s complexities.

My love for sarees has also introduced me to incredible women who have become an essential part of my life. They challenge me, inspire me, and help me grow into a better version of myself. These saree meets—filled with fun and laughter among like-minded women—are the highlight of my social life. They are the reason I look forward to dressing up and embracing the joy of the moment.

One of my oldest friendships, spanning a quarter-century, includes three close friends here in Boston. We’ve raised our children together and have always been each other’s support system. We might not go on vacations together, and we only started going out to dinner in recent years, but all four of us are each other’s emergency contacts. We didn’t go bar-hopping, but we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries, share meals at one another’s homes, meet each other’s families—even those in India—and spend countless hours chatting and laughing. We know the ins and outs of each other’s households and are there for one another through thick and thin. When I received the call about my mom being in the hospital, they were the first to know. It’s this understanding and unconditional support that has kept our bond strong. There are too many memories to count—whether laughing over homemade meals, comforting each other during tough times, or celebrating life’s simple joys together.

I feel these friendships lift a significant burden from my husband. He doesn’t have to be everything for me. Esther Perel, a renowned psychotherapist, often discusses how in today’s society, we place all our emotional, social, and practical needs on a single partner. This can be overwhelming. She compares this to past times when communities or “villages” offered support in various ways—something we now expect from just one person.

The Desi Moms Network (a “village” I’ve built for Indian mothers of children with special needs in the Boston area) redefines what friendship means.

When I first started this group, purely based on friendship, it felt strange to some of the mothers. They were meeting and not talking about their kids, but about themselves. It was hard for them to step out of that “motherhood shell” and just be themselves. But slowly, they began to understand the value of building a friendship first, which later helped them support each other on a different level.

These mothers are there for each other in ways even their families cannot be. There are countless stories, but one in particular will stay with me for a long time. A new member of the group introduced herself, feeling defeated and overwhelmed by depression and seeking help. Within minutes, she was surrounded by women offering their unconditional support, from texts and calls to invites to meet in person.

The moms in this group have a unique understanding of friendship. They see each other as lifelong sisters on this challenging journey. For them, friendship is not just a bond, it’s a sisterhood, a family, and a sense of belonging.

One mother shared that the most meaningful aspect of this bond is being able to be her true, unfiltered self. She doesn’t have to pretend, put on a brave face, or force a smile. She can be raw and honest about her fears, worries, and pain. This kind of connection—where you are fully seen and accepted without judgment—is something we all wish for in friendships, but rarely find. It’s a cocoon of safety and support.

Another mom shared that, within this group, she doesn’t have to pretend everything is okay or that her world isn’t falling apart. These friends understand the unspoken struggles in each other’s homes and accept every child for who they are.

One more mom said that these ladies will always have her back. They’ll tell her like it is, and sometimes even give her a nudge to meet deadlines and get things done.

Friendships can be conditional in our lives—some are long-lasting, while others are temporary. But what makes them stick for you? What does friendship mean to you? You’re not the same person you were in high school or college. Do your friends appreciate who you are now? Do they celebrate your successes with you? Are they there for you during tough times? Do they care for you? Do they help make you a better person?

True friendship is not just about shared memories or convenience. It’s about vulnerability, unconditional support, and evolving together. The relationships we cultivate can define us, challenge us, and lift us higher. It’s this kind of friendship that truly lasts.