Content Warnings (click to reveal)
Discussed: homophobia, coercive parenting, death of parent
Homecoming
Payal and Komal first met at a common friend’s engagement ceremony in Delhi. Komal was visiting India for the first time. She was only there for two weeks, and two weeks went by quickly when you had a line of relatives, nephews, nieces, aunts, and uncles to meet.
“And what about us?” her mother said. It was after years that Komal had finally come to India. The first few days, her mother had stayed glued next to Komal, cooking for her, nourishing her.
“Look how thin you’ve become, like a stick,” she said. Komal laughed at it, reading her book.
“It was after so much hard work that God gifted us a child, but look at our kismet — the only one we had has made her home elsewhere, oceans away from us.”
Komal found joy in all the pampering and love, the comfort, the ease of being taken care of — something she had almost forgotten. It was like home, like being in your cocoon, on your own soil. But as much as she had changed and grown over the years, home had also changed. Relatives had changed. Some had passed away. Friends had either gotten married or were about to tie the knot. Delhi itself had changed in shape.
What had remained the same was her mother — her love for Komal, and her possessiveness.
“Take the driver to drive you to the shops,” or, “I’ll come with you, don’t go alone.” As if she were still a little girl.
Relatives and neighbours visited one by one, or invited them for a meal, putting in a word for their nephew or a cousin — match-making for Komal. Often, the word was put over the dining table so each could have room to think over the warmth of the food. Komal, each time, would gape straight at her plate, not the slightest bit interested in the numerous matches they had for her.
Her mother, morsel after morsel, would jump with joy. She was happy that Komal had so many options. So many reputable men — well-settled, handsome, and family-minded.
One morning her mother said to her, “If your father was alive, he would have loved to see you. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, and oh, he would’ve helped me too, to find you a suitable boy,”
“You keep on looking and one day I’ll agree to someone, maybe. Keep on trying your luck,” Komal replied.
“Why do you talk like this?”
“Because I feel like you’re putting a lot of pressure on me. Since I’ve been back, all you’ve talked about is these boys.”
“I want the best for you.”
“Yeah, but I decide what’s best for me — and for now it is to not settle down.”
And with that, Komal’s mother burst into tears. Melodrama, Komal thought, and then she hugged her, massaging her head, consoling her as if she were a child.
“Alright, we’ll see what happens — but let’s just take it slow, alright?”
Sniffling and nodding, her mother got up and walked back to the kitchen.
The invitation to the engagement ceremony sat on the table. Komal looked at it, flipped it around. It was in five days. She needed an escape from all the melodrama her mother had put her through, so she at once made up her mind — she was to go to the ceremony.
“Maa, my friend’s getting engaged. On Saturday I’ll be going there, okay na?”
“Which friend is this?”
“A school friend.”
“Okay, go. I was, although, thinking of taking you to Nimmi Maasi — but go if you want to.”
Komal made a face, looking at her back in the kitchen.
“What did I do now?” her mother said, stirring her food.
“Nothing… leave,” Komal replied.
Then fresh samosas were served over family photo albums.
“Look how fat you are here — you were such a fat child.”
“Can we please stop body shaming me?”
“I’m just making a comment. Stay with me and I’ll get you back to your fitness.”
That evening, mother and daughter quarreled — one thing to the other — and once it was enough, her mother made an excuse to pray and Komal read her book, avoiding her.
In March, Delhi was warm. Sunlight spilled into every corner of the house. Komal often sat out on the balcony, soaking in the sun while her mother massaged her hair. Outside, the neighbourhood had grown dense with apartment blocks. The sounds of construction filtered through the windows. And yet, some things had stayed the same — the little shops nearby, their faded signboards and loyal vendors.
Sometimes, mother and daughter ventured out together. Her mother insisted the car’s air conditioning be turned on, but kept all the windows down. They drank only Bisleri water and ate only at places that were clean and hygienic. The driver opened the doors for them and waited outside, always keeping a quiet watch to make sure they were safe, comfortable.
“This is exactly why I left,” Komal said one night.
“Why are you talking like this again? We have everything here, Komal. You didn’t have to leave. And no one’s asking you to go back,” her mother replied.
“It’s not that, Maa. I just feel a lot of pressure. I feel watched. You’re taking me around like I’m still a little child.”
“All I have is you. I’m just happy you’re back.”
“I’m happy too. Just… give me a little space.”
That night, her mother went to bed right after dinner. Komal stayed back on the sofa, reading her book. Much later, she poured herself a glass of whiskey and lit a cigarette. A ghazal played softly in the background. The windchime swayed — its chimes cutting into the music now and then. A breeze cooled the room. The rest of the house was silent, dark.
Komal reached for the photo album and started flipping through it. Her in kindergarten, her father beside her — that was her first day of school. He looked so proud. Then her in uniform, marching as school prefect. Then singing in the choir. A photo from the Jaipur trip — her high school friends scattered in the background. And then, a picture of Komal and Preety.
This time, Komal brought the album closer, her fingers resting on the edge of the photograph. It was from tenth grade, taken during that same trip. She looked carefully at Preety — the way she was laughing, slightly turned towards Komal, their shoulders touching. That night was still fresh in her mind. Then she wondered where Preety would be, how her life had turned out. The invitation to the engagement ceremony still sat wedged between books on the coffee table. She looked back at it and wondered if Preety would be there too.
At the engagement ceremony, Komal met most of her school friends. Life had drastically changed for everyone. Some were there with their partners and kids, some with their fiancés, and a few still single. Over glasses of champagne, with laughter hanging in the air, stories from school were told — one after the other. It felt like the perfect reunion.
Komal’s gaze moved slowly through the crowd, searching for Preety. But she was nowhere to be seen.
Later, she asked a friend if she knew what Preety was up to now.
“Well, Preety got married last year and moved to the States. Her guy works at NASA, I think. A scientist.”
And just like that, Komal’s pounding heart came to a halt. She pictured Preety’s life through the few details the friend had given — and felt a strange sense of peace knowing she had settled happily.
Later, over food, the couple announced that there would be a cocktail party in the evening. When invited, Komal had seemed unsure at first, but as the crowd grew warmer — bonding over memories, their good old days — she accepted the invite.
Her phone buzzed with calls from her mother. She texted back that she’d be home late.
Everyone wanted to know how life had been since she left. A friend, noticing how distant Komal seemed, asked if she was alright.
“Well, yeah… I’m still adjusting, maybe. Since I moved, life’s been on a different pace. And now, being back, I’m realising how much has changed.”
The friend laughed softly, then waved someone over.
“Here, meet my friend Payal — she’s just like you. An NRI, struggling with the reverse culture shock.”
Payal was slightly taller than Komal, with light brown eyes that carried a kind of calm. Her lips were plump and soft, her ears adorned with piercings, tattoos running down both arms.
They smiled at each other before Payal grabbed two more glasses of wine and offered one to Komal.
“So, how are you feeling?”
“Good — energised by the celebration, I think.”
“How long have you been away?”
“Like ten years. I left and never really looked back.”
A group of young men began to cheer. Payal guided Komal to a corner, where they could hear each other better. Payal ran her fingers through her hair and continued looking back at Komal.
“That’s a long time to be away from home.”
“Yeah… felt right then, I think.”
“Fair. You probably didn’t miss much.”
“Probably. What about you though? What brought you back?”
“Parents — and my sister was having a baby, so I thought I’d come do aunty duties.”
They talked about their families, their childhoods — both daughters of industrialists, their early years shaped by boarding schools and international curriculums.
Payal, unlike Komal, had plans to stay — to help with her father’s business. She was a U.S. citizen, had gone abroad for a business degree at Harvard, but had recently returned.
“So that means you’ll give up your life in the States and just move right back here?”
“Yeah, at least for a few years.”
“That’s shocking to me. I’m only here for two weeks and I already can’t wait to go back.”
“I get that. But maybe we’re just in different boats. I’m really close to my family, and not much will change for me — just more duties, more comfort. And I’m okay with that.”
After a toast to the newly engaged couple, Komal and Payal began to discuss their own romantic lives. Payal was openly a lesbian. The first time she came out to herself, her mother had been right beside her. Her father had only celebrated her openness. In the States, she often advocated for Indian LGBTIQ+ communities, and in India, she had started Delhi’s first queer café. Sitting there, listening to Payal talk about her life, a part of Komal felt hesitant — unsure if she wanted to hear more — but something about Payal made her stay. She was curious. She wanted to know her.
In Melbourne, during the first few years, Komal had casually dated men. She had even fallen in love once. But the thought of settling down had never taken root. She believed in love, she liked intimacy — but anything long-term always felt just out of reach. Whenever a relationship began to deepen, she would stop herself. A nervousness would rise in her. A hesitation.
The night went on with Payal and Komal bonding. At the cocktail party, everyone danced together. Besides the engagement itself, the evening felt like a networking event too — high school groups introducing their friends to one another, everyone getting along, exchanging numbers, and promising to stay in touch.
Payal and Komal exchanged contacts too. Payal invited Komal to her café.
Komal was surprised by how quickly the evening had passed. She found Payal incredibly likeable — confident and authentic, with no filters. Loud and friendly, the kind of person who made others feel at ease.
They talked through the night about their future goals, their regrets, where they saw themselves, and whether they would ever give in and finally settle down. As open as Payal was about her queerness, she was equally positive about marriage. She had a fiancée, and they had only postponed their wedding because both had little time to take a break from their careers.
“How did you meet?” Komal asked.
“Well, it’s funny — our parents were family friends. Every year, my birthday and her birthday, we had each other. I’ve known her since fifth grade. We fell in love after we graduated from school.”
It reminded Komal of Preety. She drifted into that memory, of how they had been inseparable in school. They lived just a block apart, met in kindergarten and stayed at the same school — at least until eighth grade. That year, Komal was sent to a boarding school while Preety stayed back in Delhi. In the years that followed, Komal lost all contact with her. It was a separation that tormented her for years, left her wondering what her fault had been. Attending boarding school was not at all by choice. Komal’s father had forced her to do it. He thought it was best for her. Before moving to Melbourne, Komal had always held it against him. There was silence for years between them until his health declined, and soon after a year, he passed away.
As it got dark and people started to disperse, slightly drunk, Komal stopped by Payal to say goodbye. She had felt inspired, settled, talking to her. She promised to visit her café in the coming days. Payal hugged her tightly and wished her the best.
Back at home, the lights were still on. Her mother, sitting in the lounge, had been waiting. Komal stepped in quietly and sat on the couch.
“Would you like some water?” her mother asked.
“No, I’m good. You can go to bed — I’ll be up reading.”
“I won’t bother you then,” her mother said.
But standing in the kitchen, holding the glass of water, she stood staring at Komal— waiting to see if she would actually open a book. Komal took her time, pretending to read, her mother still lurking in the background. Then she got up and looked her straight in the eye.
“Mum, can you just leave me alone for like one day?”
“I let you go to your friend’s engagement — one whole day away from me — and now you come home and say this? What has happened to you…”
This time, Komal walked into the kitchen.
“Please don’t get dramatic now… okay? Ever since I arrived, you’ve been following me around like you always wanted me back. And now that I ask for a little space, you’re standing here blaming me.”
“Can you keep your voice down? The neighbours might be listening.”
“My voice is down, Mum. My voice is down. Please — just go to bed and leave me alone for a while.”
“If your father were alive, he wouldn’t have let you talk to me like this.”
Komal wanted to turn back and reply, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want to go too far. She switched off the lights and went to her bedroom. Under the dim light, she opened her phone and searched for Preety on Facebook — but there was no trace of her.
She lay there thinking of her, the memory pulling her in, until eventually, she drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, as soon as sunlight spilled through the windows, Komal was up. She got dressed and packed her bag. In the kitchen, her mother was cooking. Komal called out, asking for breakfast.
As her mother laid the plate on the table and noticed Komal all ready to go, she asked,
“Where are you off to?”
“To see a friend. She just opened a café.”
Komal’s tone was firm — like she had already made up her mind. Her mother thought of suggesting the driver again, but the tension from the night before still hung in the air. She chose, this time, to let it go.
“Okay, do as you wish. I’ll let you do what you want.”
“Thanks, Maa,” Komal replied.
The café was in Hauz Khas, overlooking the fort — vines climbing one wall, the other covered with miniature paintings. It still looked like it was in the middle of becoming something — evolving, unfinished.
Komal ordered a drink and sat down with her book, waiting for Payal to arrive.
Soon, Payal emerged, a smile spread across her face, arms open. They hugged and sat down.
“You should try our enchiladas,” Payal said. “I tweaked the recipe a little with help from my grandma.”
They slipped into easy conversation — about the weather, how muggy it would get in a few months. Komal had come at just the right time.
“Let me take you for a walk around the fort,” Payal said. “It’s all green and overgrown. Did you check out the view from our balcony? Delhi looks like a sleeping city from there — calm, whether it’s day or night.”
Payal carried the same air around her — smiling, greeting all the vendors on her way. Confident and approachable. Komal felt comfortable in her presence.
“So, what do you do in Melbourne?”
“I teach. Work with children. It keeps me motivated.”
“Must be so rewarding — having the chance to shape young minds in a positive way.”
“Truly. At first, I thought that because it was the Australian curriculum, I’d be more free to do that — to really make a difference. But honestly, the standards are still the same. Better than how schooling works here, of course, but still… sometimes it’s the same old approach. Punish rather than understand. Obedience over curiosity. Less acceptance, less real encouragement.”
“Yes, I feel that… It’s very contextual, I think,” Payal said, slowing down. “A lot depends on the people in charge — what kind of world they believe in. And sometimes I wonder if institutions anywhere really want children to think for themselves.”
Komal nodded, watching a leaf fall from the giant tree that arched over the fort wall. “Some days it feels like I’m just undoing damage.”
“You probably are,” Payal said, “just by showing up as yourself.”
“Maybe,” Komal replied, her hand trailing along the bark of the tree.
They sat down with the lake in front of them, the soft quacking of ducks echoing around them.
Meeting Payal wasn’t just comforting—it was rejuvenating. Something Komal had quietly been searching for, without even realising it. Payal’s ideas felt alive, grounded, full of colour. She seemed like someone who had been raised with love, with a kind of acceptance that ran deep.
Komal, on the other hand, felt the absence of that. The lack of a childhood where being herself had been allowed. And yet, Payal carried no air of superiority. She was humble, warm, grounded—and Komal respected that.
“Where did you go to school, by the way?” Payal asked.
“Umm… right here in Delhi. Bishop Convent. But after eighth grade, I was sent to a boarding school. And since then, I’ve tried not to stay in Delhi too long.” Komal smiled.
“You and Delhi have a love-hate relationship,” Payal said, laughing.
“We do. Coming back stirs something up in me. Reminds me of how life used to be… and how much I’ve changed.”
“Good changes or bad?” Payal asked gently.
“I like to think all change is good.” Komal shrugged. “What about you? Where did you study?”
“I was in boarding school all through. It was fun and tough. But I used to travel with my parents during the summer holidays—so I guess it gave me a kind of balance.”
Their eyes followed a flock of pigeons flying across the sky, wings cutting gently through the stillness.
“What was it like—coming out?” Komal asked.
“Like being set free,” Payal said. “But I was lucky. My family supported me, which I know isn’t the case for most queer folks.”
Thereafter, they both made their way back to the café. It was getting warmer, and Payal had some errands to run. Komal stayed back at the café, reading and drinking.
Back at home, her mother had been cooking for Komal.
Hearing her footsteps, her mother appeared at the door and gave her a tight hug. Komal hugged her back, then gently moved her aside to head into the kitchen.
“Mutter paneer!” Komal shouted from inside. It was her favourite — something she savoured without looking up from her plate.
“Yes, I made it only for you, bacche,” her mother replied.
As Komal poured herself some and started to eat, her mother pulled out a chair and sat across from her, slowly sniffling.
“Why are you crying now?” Komal asked.
“No, I’m just full of emotions. You being back — and soon, you’ll be gone again.”
“That’s right… but Maa, it’s been wonderful to be back. I needed this.”
“Then don’t leave,” her mother said. “All I have is you… After your father’s death, you’re all I have.”
At the mention of her father, Komal grew quiet. The guilt crept in again — how she had cut all ties with him, how even on the day he passed, she hadn’t made it back. In Melbourne, she had stayed in bed all day, paralysed by the guilt of losing a father she hadn’t yet forgiven.
At the end of eighth grade, Komal had pleaded in front of him. She wanted to stay in Delhi — with Preety, and with a life she loved — but he had turned his face away. By taking away what she loved most, her father thought he could set her right. She had to be punished for what she had done. He saw her as broken, as damaged. And he saw that as his own failure.
Then she got up, placed her plate in the sink, rinsed it, and turned back to face her mother.
“Maa… was it because of Nimmi Maasi that you sent me to boarding?”
“What Nimmi Maasi? Why are you asking such questions? It was your father’s decision. He thought that was best for you.”
“No, Maa. Tell me… was it because of me and Preety?”
Her mother went quiet. Then, slowly, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Komal didn’t move, and didn’t rush to comfort her. She let the silence stretch — not out of cruelty, but out of understanding. This wasn’t a moment to fix. It was one to survive.
After a while, her mother wiped her face with the edge of her dupatta.
“I was scared,” she whispered. “Not of you… of the world. Of what people would say. Of what it would do to your life.”
Komal nodded. She had imagined this moment differently for years — imagined shouting, accusations, walking out. But standing there now, she felt nothing like that.
Just tired. And a little free.
She stepped forward and placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder.
“I know,” she said. “It’s okay.”
Her mother looked up, eyes swollen, searching Komal’s face like she was seeing her for the first time.
“You’re not angry?”
“No. I’ve just been carrying this for too long.”
“Her mother hesitated, then said quietly, “You can be yourself. It’s your life.”
Komal nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “But mum, please stop with the matchmaking.”
“I will, I will, I promise,” her mother replied.
Then Komal lightly patted her mother’s head, undid her braid and ran her hands through it. Her mother sniffled, buried her head in the embrace and started to cry. Komal smiled and quietly let her.
Madhvi Thakur is a bilingual writer, radio presenter, and sometimes ghostwriter. Her work explores gender, sexuality, and migration, often drawing on the intimate and political lives of South Asian women. She is currently working on a book of short stories. When she’s not writing, she hosts radio segments on 3CR called Writing Home.
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