I remember home.

I remember the country. The city. I remember what the drive there would sound like. The engine would take longer to start when it was cold. I’d feel sick in the car. We didn’t have a car. We didn’t need one. I’d go to school on the train. On the bus. I remember I’d only take my bike to school. All of the kids would. We’d travel together in a long procession. We would snake through the neighborhood, stopping at each house. I remember the neighborhood. It didn’t really feel like a neighborhood. The city was too dense. The city had been built so quickly. There was no time for a neighborhood to form. Oil money. Manufacturing. Development aid. I remember when China came in. I remember when they built our roads. I remember building the roads, too.

I remember the roads. Powdery dirt until the cracked concrete started again, somewhere along the beaches. Roads that weaved up into the mountains, pine trees gathering snow until the tree line broke. I’d be so high up. I remember the sound of the engine sputtering in a crescendo until it reached a maximum. The roads were so flat. New asphalt. Toyota Frontrunners speeding along the desert roads. Sand would pile along the margins, freshly-painted white lines, baking in the heat. Those road would crumble too. It would become worse in the winter.

I remember the winters. The ice would melt and leave scattered pieces of broken rock everywhere. Street sweepers would come by each night, when the buildings illuminated by the darkness began to quiet. They’d brush detritus into the gutters along the side streets. This was the only way the city could have stayed so clean. They’d brush the ash too, burned remains of the stalk tops from this year’s harvest of sugar cane. Rice fields would extend outwards until you were at the foot of the mountains again. The air would be thick with smoke from the fires.

I remember the fire. I remember the smoke. Burning my eyes. The wind always moved it towards me. I hated that. I remember that I hated that. We’d sing songs all night until we’d burned all of the dried palm leaves we’d spent the day collecting along the beach. We’d roast pork sausages until their juices would drip into the fire. I remember the small sizzle of the sausage drippings. I remember setting up the tents, clearing the pinecones and needles from the ground. We’d look for broad-leaved banana trees in case it rained. I remember how little water we’d had. I remember when there used to be a lot of water. I remember the floods. I’d sit in my tent and watch movies I’d downloaded onto my phone all night. I remember the screen illuminating the inside of my sleeping bag.

I remember the screens. Blue light. Late nights. I remember when we first started seeing phones with screens in town. I remember the first telephone wires. We’d been so scared. We learned how to send text messages. Facebook groups. Computer classes at school. Learning how to design microprocessors. Descending into the silica mines, dredging the land. Into the cobalt mines. I remember the tips of my fingers bleeding. My back hurting. I remember when I first got the cough. I’d go home and lay in my bed. I remember the burning in my chest. Closing my eyes. The blare of my alarm waking me. Morning light filtering in over the Chicago skyline.

I remember Chicago. My home just outside of Chicago, just outside of New Delhi. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. I remember when Modi got rid of cash. Baba’s business barely survived. Baba was a businessman. Baba was a millionaire. I remember what Baba did with a million dollars. Six homes. Winter homes. Penthouses looking over Lake Michigan. I remember swimming in Lake Michigan. I’d still be wet sitting in the back of the minivan. We’d drive for hours until we were along the border with Mexico. We’d climb the fence and finally be free from it all. I remember the fence, brown rust coloring the dark metal. I remember the fear. The war.

I remember the war. I remember the tanks speeding through the streets. Shellshocked dogs and cats curling up in the rubble. News cameras arrived six days later. I remember watching the women crying on the news. Retweeting the videos. I remember the feeling of the gun in my hands. Heavy. Cold metal. I remember conscription. I’d always wanted to fight. They deserved it. I remember sitting in the back of the transport vehicle. Heart beating. I remember their eyes. Cowering before them. Cowering before me. Fleeing. I remember the welcome signs at the airport. At the train station. Tent cities. I remember the little photos my mother lined up by the zipper door. It felt like home.

I remember home.

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