Home will always be home

When she returned from abroad, she was welcomed by a treat for the senses that was typical of her homeland.

The familiarity of constant chatter in the background hit her like a wave, as the mingling languages carried her through the bustling airport with the warmth of nostalgic reminiscence.

It was a stark contrast to the cold airport in Los Angeles, where everyone went about their business in an unfeeling silence. As she struggled through the airport with her large suitcases, Tara snapped out of her daze when a young man behind her spoke.

“Dik, nak abang tolong bawa troli ke?” he asked pleasantly, with a large grin on his face. She was surprised – both by his kind offer to help her with her bags, as well as the Malay language.

She thanked him and accepted his help, stuttering out a response along the lines of, “Ya, boleh tolong … terima kasih,” immediately ashamed of the irregularity in her speech. The words no longer rolled off her tongue with practised precision, and her struggle to formulate a reply merely exposed the neglect of her national language.

Her mystery helper picked up on her ineloquence and immediately switched to English. “Sorry ya, Miss. Thought you were Malaysian. First time here?” he asked kindly, taking her bags from her and loading them onto a trolley.

She flushed in embarrassment at his comment and swallowed a retort. “Ha! I’m Malaysian lah, bang, please excuse my broken Malay … I just haven’t been back in a while.”

They approached the exit gates, and she stopped to thank him.

“No problem, dik. Better learn Malay again fast-fast so you can ask for help next time,” he said, chuckling, as he waved goodbye.

Next time, she thought, smiling back at him as she walked into her homeland for the first time in 12 years.

“Wah, girl! Looking so cantik lah now!” her aunt cooed when she got home, tackling her into a hug before she could put her bags down.

Desperate to escape the suffocating confines of her house, Tara had scheduled a meet-up with some of her old friends. She sat at the noisy mamak shop where they were supposed to meet, and nursed her Teh O Ais Limau anxiously in anticipation. Her old best friend from kindergarten, Serena, had sounded oddly unenthusiastic over text at the prospect of catching up after years.

“TAAARAAAA! The one and only Miss America is back in town lah!” her friend Jenny exclaimed, pulling her into a hug. Two other girls walked up to them smiling, Zainab and Sharon.

Tara was taken aback at how grown-up everyone looked. The last time she had seen them, they were pre-schoolers. Keeping up with their lives on social media had been easy enough, but witnessing her friends’ development into young adults caused a lump in her throat that she hadn’t expected. She hugged them one by one, trying to blink back tears and laugh at jokes about how tall she had gotten.

Finally, she reached Serena, whom she hadn’t even realised had arrived. Tara flashed a wide grin, reaching out excitedly to wrap her old best friend in a tight hug – but was instead offered a casual nod and “Hi”.

“Paati, does this look weird on me? I feel like I’m playing dress-up, not like Amma or Atte, who look like they were made to wear saris. I feel … out of place.”

Her ever-attentive grandmother caught the deeper sentiment behind her statement. “Do you mean out of place in the sari or here?” she asked gently, with a knowing smile.

“You already know the answer to that, Paati. Everyone knows Lila and I don’t really belong here anymore. I know we’re both really different now, but we grew up in a completely different environment. I’m at least excited to be back and relearning everything slowly, but Lila …” she trailed off, as her grandmother nudged her for another safety pin, ensuring her pleats were held together neatly.

“There’s like this huge gap between us and the rest of the family. It’s so obvious, the strain between me and the family members who used to adore me. But what can I do?

“I’m trying to fit in, I really am. You know I’m forcing my old Malaysian accent? My normal talking voice is in an American accent now, but I don’t want to stick out any more than I already do. I’m not properly Indian-Malaysian on the inside, let alone the outside! I don’t even look right in a sari.”

“Paati, I don’t think I belong here anymore.”

Editor’s Note: This is an excerpt from ‘Belong’ by Rheya Naidu. It is part of a series of short stories – What The Future Brings. The book is available at BookXcess for RM31.90.

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