Home is Where Ammachi is

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Home is Where Ammachi is

Illustration: Juergen Dsouza / Arré

I

t’s that time of the year again. You’re going back to the bosom of your motherland. You’ve sent the out-of-office email, packed your bags with assorted gifts for assorted relatives – rice cookies for the younger cousins, a humongous torch for appachan, Dove cream for ammachi – included at least ten different portable chargers and power sources, packed the last of your least holey clothes. You’ve checked your waitlist number on the IRCTC website a million times, hoping that the powers that be have decided that you deserve a seat until finally, the day arrives.

Inside the train you find your train legs, learn to move around the compartment, and establish your territory. You call dibs on the middle berth, until your dad makes you sleep on the cagey topmost berth, but you only realise its significance when you watch Episode 2 of Chai Sutta Chronicles and finally understand the ways of men in trains. *Cue ogling*

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