The Familiar and the Forgotten

By Jahnavi Eluru

After spending a year in Switzerland for my Master’s studies, my first time living abroad, I have returned to India. Until then, all of my 21 years had been rooted here. Yet, over that one year in Geneva, I found myself growing unexpectedly comfortable. I felt freer walking alone at night, dressing however I pleased, and simply living independently gave me a sense of strength I had not known before. I thought I had become more “myself” there.

As I prepared to fly back to India, I was overwhelmed by a flood of questions: Would I still feel at home? Would I resent the discomforts I had once tolerated so easily? Would I become that stereotypical NRI – returning only to complain about pollution, traffic, or chaos? I did not want to be that person. These are valid concerns, yes, but they’re also the fabric of my upbringing.

So I planned reunions with old friends and threw myself into the comfort zones I had here. But amidst all the familiar chaos, the real shift came during a moment of quiet. I had just landed in Bengaluru, standing on a buzzing street waiting for a friend to pick me up and it all felt overwhelmingly familiar. As though Geneva had been a distant dream. A hallucination.

In just two weeks, the life I had built abroad, so carefully, so independently, began to blur. Friends would ask, “What do you cook? What’s your life like there?” and I would find myself struggling to recall the details. It wasn’t that I didn’t cherish my time there; I truly did. But the depth of familiarity I have with life in India – the sounds, smells, rhythms is unmatched. I slipped back into my old routines so naturally—driving my car, speaking in my native tongue, moving through spaces I have always known.

And that’s when it hit me: perhaps familiarity isn’t about preference. I loved living in Geneva. I loved the autonomy it gave me. But I didn’t belong to it, not yet. There’s something haunting about how easy it is to forget a life you genuinely liked, and how impossible it is to forget one that’s built into your bones.

Since being home, I have started noticing the smallest things: my mom making coffee, my dad inviting me for a walk, my sister folding laundry with care, my grandmother heating up oil in preparation for a head massage. These quiet, ordinary moments have taken on a sacred weight. I watch, I listen, I memorise, because I want to own every detail. These acts of care, often overlooked, now feel like rituals that I do not wish to let slip away again.

Maybe that’s what home really is—not just a place you live in, but a place that lives in you.