City Hall MRT Station, Singapore.
It’s evening rush hour. There’s no pushing and shoving like in Delhi, but the train is still full. Amid the high-decibel mix of English, Cantonese, Hokkien, Tamil, and Malay, two men seated opposite are speaking in Hindi. From their tone and manner, they seem to be from somewhere around Delhi. Both appear to be working in corporate jobs.
The older one looks to be in his forties; the younger, perhaps thirty-five—or younger, though his slightly overweight frame makes him seem older. The younger man says to the older one:
“I don’t know why everyone at the office is so surprised whenever I talk about going back to India to be with my parents.”
The older man listens with a quiet attentiveness, almost like a therapist.
“Yes, that happens,” he says simply.
I have a book of short stories borrowed from the library open in my hands, but their conversation keeps drawing my attention.
The younger man continues, “You know Jatin from the Infra team?”
“Yes.”
“He’s got a younger brother who works in Pune. Their mother lives alone in Indore. Poor woman keeps shifting between the village and her house in Indore—all alone.”
He sounds frustrated.
“Man, we do everything for our kids. Every struggle, every sacrifice. Didn’t our parents do the same for us? Didn’t they give whatever they could, in their own time, in their own way? Am I wrong?”
“Not at all. They absolutely did,” the older man agrees.
“Then don’t we owe them something? I can’t leave them alone. Money isn’t everything.”
“And Aarti? Does she want to go back?” the older man asks his first real question.
“She’ll never say yes. I’ll have to take that step myself.”
Before my station arrives, both men get off the train. Amid the noise and movement, I hear the younger man declaring,
“Let me see how this year goes. Next year, I’m going back.”
A nearby seat is now empty. I shift slightly, look out of the window, and smile.
As the train speeds ahead, the public housing blocks of Singapore blur past in the background. All of them have different colored stripes. Some have murals painted on them. And yet, they all feel so similar—their design, their material, their past, and their future—all cut from the same mold.
Just like that, our Indian stories are also strikingly similar—our struggles, our dreams, our duties.
Had that man been someone I knew, I would’ve patted his shoulder after his declaration and said,
“You won’t be able to go back, brother. Not next year. Maybe not even in the next ten years.”
Because the very scale that weighs your duty and pulls you toward India has another side to it: your wife’s wishes, your children’s future, better income, a better environment.
More often than not, that side of the scale outweighs the other.
The man working abroad rarely returns home while still young.
