With or Without Them: What Every Trip to Your Parents’ Home Teaches You

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With or Without Them: What Every Trip to Your Parents’ Home Teaches You

Illustration: Akshita Monga

I

was sailing my yacht through the Strait of Gibraltar with Victoria’s Secret Angels and Led Zeppelin for company, when the sound of an early morning Sudhanshu Maharaj sermon shattered my dreamy slumber. I woke up in the bedroom of my childhood, not a luxury cabin, with a faded Metallica poster instead of Adriana Lima looking at me. I was back at my parents’ house in Coorg, after having spent three years living on my own in the Big City, and I had forgotten all about the mandatory 7 am wake-up call from Aastha TV.

Now that I’m safely back in my Mumbai apartment, where the rent is inversely proportional to the living space, I can begin to recover from the bittersweet ordeal that is the homecoming experience. If the trials stopped at the morning sermons played at full volume, I wouldn’t have been such a wreck. But going back home to live with your parents after you’ve been on your own is like taking a dip in a freezing river. In the middle of winter. In the Russian tundra. You think you know what you were getting into, but the reality shocks you to your very core.

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