Stories from Home

Growing up in a place like Asansol was interesting in a way I did not fully understand until I left. There is something almost ridiculous about the Asansol-to-NYU-to-living-in-New-York-City-at-eighteen pipeline. People have asked me several times how I did not go crazy, whether the culture shock was not big enough to drive me crazy. And honestly, it kind of did.

Sometimes I look back at what I was constantly surrounded by then, compared to what surrounds me now, the stark change in my immediate environment, the people around me, and the kind of life I am expected to live. Funnily enough, I never really saw myself leaving West Bengal. Moving to New York was a distant dream, until suddenly, at eighteen, my college decision arrived, my visa was approved, the funds were figured out, and it became real.

I remember looking at myself in the mirror, then at all the things in my room, and thinking, Did I just die? Or is it actually true that next month I will not be going to bed here anymore? This will become a place I only visit when I get time off from school or work. The life I knew for 18 years is simply becoming a place I only return to. I am actually leaving.

This was also 2021, after spending most of the previous year wondering when I would finally get to leave my house, lying on my bed for hours, staring at the ceiling as though it might magically change color.

This series of photographs is a small ode to three things I associate most closely with home, and with some part of my identity.

The first is Kumortuli, the historic potters’ quarter along the river, where deities are sculpted for the many festivals celebrated across West Bengal. I often think about the way the artisans make the faces, especially the eyes. When I was little, I was obsessed with learning how to draw the perfect face of Maa Durga. Later, that fascination became an interest in the shape of her head, the curves of her cheeks, and the softness and symmetry of her features. A lot of the clay sculptures I make now are still heavily inspired by the faces of the deities I grew up observing. I waited for these festivals more eagerly than I waited for my own birthday.

The second is gur, or jaggery, harvested during the winter months : a rich, brown sweetness that tastes inseparable from that time of year. My mother, who has a remarkable talent for finding the perfect version of anything, would wake up early in the morning just to procure the best batch.

She taught me that you can tell how much refined sugar has been mixed into the gur by looking for tiny white crystals shining on its surface. You do not want that. You want the purest gur, with the least added sugar, which means arriving early, before sellers begin mixing in more sugar to meet the growing demand of the day.

My mother sends it to everyone. She wakes up early for all the people she cares about and returns with jars and jars of gur to distribute, already knowing the large smiles that will appear when she hands someone their share of that golden-brown elixir.

The third remains unnamed. It began with a visit to a temple I have always gone to with my mother. The ritual is always the same: we stop at the flower shop to buy a garland of hibiscus, then make our way inside.

During one visit, I saw a beautiful bride with her husband. In Bengali culture, you can get married wherever you choose, but it is important to visit the temple the morning after the wedding. Watching her made me think about the contradictions surrounding womanhood in the place where I grew up.

The people around me value education deeply. Degrees are treated almost like shining war medals—something to display proudly. Yet it is also completely socially acceptable for a woman not to pursue an education or career and to simply get married. Even after receiving an education, it is considered perfectly reasonable for her not to work, even when that means compromising on certain comforts or freedoms. Sometimes, not needing to work is treated as a status symbol in itself.

I often wonder what my life would have looked like had I not done well in high school. Had I not stayed up late finishing assignments, participated in all those extracurricular activities, gotten into NYU, or pursued a degree that could eventually give me a career.

Thinking about that life feels like looking over the edge of a cliff I was only narrowly saved from falling from. But there are clouds below, so I cannot tell what is waiting there. Maybe there are rocks, and I hit my head and die. Or maybe there is a blissful forest made entirely of marshmallows.

Either way, my life would have been completely different.