Long Way Home

by Saroo Brierly

  As more people came flocking to see me, the gathering turned into a public celebration, with music and people dancing in the streets. I was moved by their reaction, and also shaken by the entire turn of events; my emotions were almost overwhelming to me. My return seemed to inspire and energize the neighborhood, as though it was evidence that the hard luck of life did not have to rule you. Sometimes miracles do happen.

  My family seems to be one that holds in our emotions until they build up such pressure that we have no choice but to release them. When we had some time to ourselves, we all wept a lot, from happiness but also from the sadness of the time we’d lost. I was now thirty, Kallu, thirty-three, and Shekila, twenty-seven. I had last seen Shekila as a tiny child whom I’d had to keep watch over, and now she had two beautiful children of her own.

  I remembered something and grabbed a bit of charcoal from the fireplace, showing her. She laughed, recalling the times when she used to eat it as a baby. The fact that we could laugh about it now showed how far we had come from those days.

  Shekila and Kallu were lucky enough to have gone to school. With Guddu and me gone, our mother had just been able to afford to send them. Shekila had become a schoolteacher, able to speak and write Hindi and Urdu (but not English). Shekila told me that when she got the call from our mother the day before, she didn’t believe it—she’d thought it might be someone pulling a scam or playing a joke. But my mother’s conviction, and especially her description of the sheet of photos of me as a kid, brought her around. Shekila had thanked God for the miracle and quickly got on a train to join us. She said that when she had laid eyes on me again, she had been “lost in time,” taken back to the days when I looked after her. She had known it was me straightaway.

  Kallu had also done well for himself. He was now a factory manager, with a supplementary income as a school bus driver. So in one generation, my family’s occupations went from stone-carrying laborer to teacher and manager. It seems a bittersweet result of the family’s loss that the remaining children had managed to lift themselves out of poverty. But life hadn’t been easy for Kallu—I was deeply saddened to hear that I’d been right about his life after Guddu and I disappeared.

  The burden of being the only man in the house had weighed on him heavily. Although he had been sent to school after my disappearance, he had cut his schooling short in order to learn to drive so he could get better work to try to support Shekila and our mother. The pain of loss had never left him, and it eventually caused him to leave Ganesh Talai and Khandwa altogether and move to Burhanpur. He told me that he’d even questioned his Hindu faith at times, but had felt that the gods would “do justice” one day and I would return. My return affected him deeply. Perhaps it would mean that some of the wounds he had carried for so long could begin to heal and his burdens could be shared.

  We talked more about the difficult times my family had endured after my disappearance—Shekila even admitted to being scared about sending her little kids to school in case one day they didn’t come back. But there was laughter, too, of course. One thing that left me bemused was the discovery that I was christened Sheru, Hindi for “lion.” I’d mispronounced my name ever since I became lost—and now I’d forever be Saroo.

  I found that being in Ganesh Talai brought back a lot of memories about my life there, and talking with my family brought back even more, most of which I was too young to understand at the time. The things I learned that day, and in the couple of days that followed, helped me to fill in some of the gaps in the picture of my early life—a life that’s ordinary for millions of small-town Indians. Our conversations also helped me understand the life my birth mother had led; her resilience in the face of its harshness made me admire her even more.

  My mother’s family was of the Rajput warrior caste, and her father was a policeman. She was named Kamla after the Hindu goddess of creation, Kamala. I remembered her as having been beautiful, and I still found her so, despite the passage of so many backbreaking and often heartbreaking years.

  My father had worked as a building contractor. He was twenty- four and my mother eighteen when they married.

  I’ve now learned much more about why I rarely saw my father. When I was around three (Guddu, nine, and Kallu, six), and my mother was pregnant with Shekila, my father announced he had taken another wife—which he was permitted to do as a Muslim— and was leaving us to live with her. My mother had apparently known nothing of my father’s intention to marry again until he announced that he’d done so—a rude shock. My father had met his new wife at one of his building sites, where she was a laborer, hefting bricks and stones and transporting them around on trays on her head. My mother would still see my father at times where he lived on the town’s outskirts. His second wife was very jealous of her and would tell her off when they saw one another. My mother was convinced it was the new wife who prevented my father from seeing us. I certainly can’t remember him visiting us at home.

  My mother decided against seeking a divorce, although she could have done so under Islamic law, having been abandoned by her husband. She remained married to my father even though he no longer lived with or supported her.

  She was deeply disturbed by all that had happened and describes that terrible time as a hurricane tearing through her life. She described it as sometimes feeling so disoriented that she didn’t know where the sky ended and the ground began. She wished to die— she even contemplated having us all take poison, or lie down on the nearby railway line to be killed by the first passing train.

  It was then that she decided to move us to the Muslim part of Ganesh Talai, to the flat that now lay unoccupied. She felt her Hindu family wouldn’t take her back in, but the Muslim community seemed supportive of her despite her circumstances. I suspect she also felt that their more prosperous neighborhood was a better environment for her children to grow up in. I now found that the religious segregation I remembered had since been relaxed, and there were no longer clearly distinguished areas. Despite the move, my mother didn’t formally convert to Islam until after my disappearance, although she didn’t veil her face as some of her friends who visited did.

  Now that I had found my mother, Kallu, and Shekila, the thought occurred to me that I might also seek out my father. Perhaps because I’d been away for so long, I thought I was open to the idea of seeing him again. It might be hard to imagine why, with so few memories of him and none very favorable. But he was a part of my identity, part of the story of my life. And perhaps sometimes families ought to offer forgiveness to people who wronged them in the past. However, with him some distance away, and my not knowing if he would want to see me anyway, I decided it wouldn’t happen on this particular trip. I didn’t mention these thoughts to anyone at the time, and as it was something I’d only want to do with their blessing, I knew I’d have to raise the subject carefully when I had become reacquainted with them. That visit with my father has not happened yet, but perhaps at some point it will.

  As I spent more time with my family and reconnected with the place where I’d been born, I thought about the word everyone kept using, including me—“home.” Was that where I was now, or was it where I’d come from?

  I didn’t know. After being lost, I’d been lucky enough to be adopted by a loving family, and not only lived somewhere else, but had become someone other than the person I might have been had I stayed in India. I didn’t just live in Australia; I thought of myself as an Australian. I had a family home with the Brierleys, and had made my own home in Hobart with my girlfriend, Lisa. I knew I belonged, and was loved, in those places.

  But finding Khandwa and my Indian family also felt like coming home. Something about being in the place just felt right. I was loved here, too, and belonged in a way I’d not thought much about beforehand and found hard to explain now. This was where I’d spent my first years, where my blood was.

  So when it was time for me to return to Hobart—a time that came around far too quickly—I felt very deeply the wrench of lea
ving. I promised my mother, sister, and brother, and their young families, that I would be back soon. I had come to see that I’d had two homes, each with its own emotional connections, even if they were thousands of kilometers apart.

  This journey, which I’d embarked upon to resolve questions about who I was, was far from finished. I had some answers—lots of answers—but I also had a lot more questions. One thing was obvious: the trip between India and Australia—between my homes— was one I was destined to make many times.

  12.

  Reaching Out

  While in India, I had received an excited text of congratulations from Asra, my old friend from Nava Jeevan, who had heard the news of my family reunion through our parents. Our families had remained close since our arrival in Melbourne all those years ago. When I got back to Hobart, I called her to share some of the joy of my experiences, mindful that she was orphaned by the death of her Indian parents and, sadly, would never be able to make the same journey. Asra was very happy for me, and asked what I was going to do now that I’d succeeded in reconnecting with my past. It had been such a whirlwind of revelations and emotions since I returned to Khandwa, I didn’t know what to say.

  I hadn’t imagined anything much beyond finding my home and, maybe, my mother. I suppose I’d thought of that as the end of the story, but it was truly more like a new beginning. I now had two families, and I had to work out how I fit in with each of them— across the world and across cultures.

  My parents and Lisa were relieved to have me back. Even though we’d spoken on the phone every day I was in India, they were worried there were things I wasn’t telling them. At first they thought I might disappear again. Lisa kept worrying about my safety—I was in one of the poorer parts of a strange country, and who knew what to expect? I only fully realized when I got back how nerve-racking it had been for them.

  That was soon forgotten, though, as everyone was anxious to hear about my meeting my family. They knew the main facts, of course, but now wanted all the details—what stories we had told each other, what the others had remembered of my childhood that I hadn’t . . . and whether I wanted to return.

  They seemed to be trying to work out whether I still wanted to be here or was thinking of moving to India. I reassured them as much as I could that although the experience had changed me in important ways, I was still the same Saroo. In reality, it took me a while to feel like my old self again, and to look at Hobart through my old eyes rather than those of a poor Indian.

  There was one change that quickly became apparent: I was now someone with a story to tell, and lots of people wanted to hear it. The Hobart newspaper, The Mercury, contacted me soon after I returned. A reporter had got wind of the story somehow and I agreed to be interviewed about it. That opened the floodgates. After The Age in Melbourne and the Sydney Morning Herald came the international media.

  We weren’t prepared for my newfound celebrity—perhaps nobody can be. Sometimes the phone rang in the middle of the night as reporters called up from all over the world. Realizing that I needed help dealing with this attention, I got a manager. Soon book publishers and film producers were calling with offers. It was surreal. I’m a salesman for industrial pipes, hoses, and fittings; I was looking for my hometown and my family—not the limelight! While I enjoyed telling my story, it never occurred to me that I’d be a person with a manager who has to schedule media engagements. Fortunately, Lisa and my parents were very supportive and gave me all the time I needed. And even though it was exhausting to go over my story again and again with the media, I thought I had a kind of duty to do it, because it might help people—what had happened to me was remarkable, and might offer hope to others who wanted to find their lost family but thought it impossible. Perhaps people in different situations could also be inspired by my experience of grasping opportunities, no matter how daunting, and never giving up.

  During this time, I stayed in touch with my Indian family with online video conferencing, which they could access with a computer at a friend’s house. Or at least they could partly access it— they didn’t have a video camera at their end, so I couldn’t see them, but they could see me and we could talk, either in our stilted way or through a translator. I decided I’d have to set my mother up so that we could stay in touch and see each other from across the world. Now that the family had finally been reunited, I wanted to play a proper part in it, building our connection and helping to look after my mother, sister, and brother, and my niece and nephews.

  There were still many things I wanted to know, and I hoped they would become clearer when I returned to India for my second visit. It was almost winter, although the weather was still warm and the air was a choking smog. With weather like this, the sky is an orange-gray, and it doesn’t change much as day turns to night.

  I was heading to Khandwa in time for the end of Diwali, the Hindu “Festival of Lights.” I had forgotten nearly everything about Indian culture, but Indians love festive occasions, so I knew it would be colorful. Diwali is a celebration of all things good and a rejection of evil. Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity, is invoked and praised, and families display their wealth before her image in their household shrine and give thanks for their good fortune. There’s feasting and gift giving, and traditionally little oil lamps are lit throughout people’s homes and buildings are covered with colored lights, like in Australia during Christmas. There are also a lot of firecrackers, and I heard loud bangs all day, as people set them off to drive away evil spirits. At night the sky was lit up by fireworks.

  I arrived as evening was settling, reaching the narrow streets of the old part of town as it was in the full swing of the festivities. My mother had told me I was always welcome to stay with her, but I knew she understood that I lived as a Westerner now and needed space and amenities her tiny flat couldn’t provide. I thanked her for her generosity but told her it would be better for me to make use of the hotel, which wasn’t far away, and visit her daily. So I had dropped my bags at the Hotel Grand Barrack and then had the taxi driver take me to join her and my family in Ganesh Talai.

  We drove through the railway underpass, the streets alive with people out shopping, and the driver dropped me off in the square near Ganesh Talai’s temple and mosque—located tolerantly close to each other. I set off on foot down the alleys of my childhood, feeling a little more at home.

  I had been trying to learn Hindi before I returned, and I’d made some progress, but once I was in any sort of conversation, I was all at sea. (I’ve heard there is a man on YouTube who boasts that he can teach Hindi in three days. One day I might give him a try— but I’ve a feeling there’s no shortcut.)

  I was greeted with warmth and joy from my mother. She had been very accepting of my “other life,” especially considering that she had no real knowledge of Australia—other than through cricket. There had been a one-day series going on between Australia, India, and Sri Lanka at the time of my first visit, and my mother said that after I’d left, whenever she saw cricket telecasts from Australia she would reach out to the screen, hoping I was in the crowd where her fingers were touching. Shekila and Kallu had traveled from their homes again to be there, too. I was welcomed back into the family without reserve.

  My mother insisted that as her guests we all sat in her plastic chairs while she sat on the floor at my feet. We didn’t need too many words to communicate how pleased we were to see each other, but it was terrific when Cheryl arrived to translate for us once more.

  Still, talking was slow work. Often I would ask a one-sentence question, and then everyone else would talk among themselves in Hindi for what felt like five minutes before I got an answer back, usually just another single sentence. I guess Cheryl had to edit. She was very generous, a patient woman with a keen sense of humor, which was just as well, as my mother, Shekila, and Kallu all liked to joke around: it seems to be a family trait.

  I also met a woman called Swarnima, who spoke perfect English and was so interested in my life story that she
offered to come and translate for us for a while. I made arrangements to pay Swarnima for her time, but she returned the money. I learned from her parents that she’d been upset that I had seen it as a professional relationship and not an offer of friendship. In fact, I was merely overwhelmed by her generous spirit, and subsequently we became good friends.

  Over several days, we all spent afternoons in my mother’s front room, talking—and drinking chai and eating—usually in the company of relatives and friends, with Swarnima translating over the noise of the rusty little fan in the old bamboo rafters of the roof. My mother seemed to fear that I was still undernourished, even though twenty-five years of an Australian diet had certainly fixed that, and she kept trying to feed me. Being with her in the kitchen area made me recall when we were kids, huddled around the earth stove to watch her cooking. The taste of her goat curry is one of my strongest memories from my early years in Ganesh Talai. I have eaten goat curry in many places over the course of my life, from wayside cafes to upmarket restaurants, but I can honestly say I’ve never tasted any comparable with the one my mother cooks over her little stove in the back room of her home. There is something about the balance of spices and the consistency of the meat—if goat is not cooked correctly, the fibrous meat sticks between your teeth—that she has down to perfection. I know that sounds like a typical proud son’s praise, but it’s also the truth! I’ve cooked a lot of goat curries at home in Tasmania following the recipe I got from my mother on my first visit, but hers is always the best.