Because the home is where the heart is
When the government was providing them food, shelter and money, why did migrant workers head home, risking their lives? I couldn’t hide my frustration while sharing my perspective with my wife. “Homesickness, dear! They were homesick. No incentive in this moment of crisis can hold them back because home is where the heart is,” she answered matterof-factly. I couldn’t agree more. Homesickness is the only sickness that doesn’t have any cure in any system of medicine.
Every time my son, studying in Canada, gives me a call, I’m surprised to hear a word or two of typical Punjabi. Whenever I ask him the reason behind his ever-expanding vocabulary of the mother tongue, he turns emotional. “Papa, we are homesick in this country. If anything reminds us of our motherland, we are quick to latch on to it. When I was in India, I seldom went to a gurdwara or a temple but here we never forget to perform sewa (volunteer) and partake of langar at the gurdwara every Sunday.”
Homesickness drives one to utter despair and one can go to any length to be with one’s family. I’m reminded of an incident from childhood at boarding school that illustrates the desperation of a homesick individual.
The second Sunday of every month used to be parents day, when parents visited their wards and spent time with them. Due to pressing circumstances, my friend’s family couldn’t visit for two consecutive months. This was enough to make my lanky friend homesick. As we were good pals, he shared his concern and from thereon began our struggle to put together a foolproof plan to seek a week’s leave from the strict administration of the school.
After exhaustive discussions, we decided to earn leave on the pretext of my friend’s elder sister’s wedding. An invitation card for the wedding was the most important document required to proceed with the leave application. We stealthily contacted a printing press owner in town. He reluctantly agreed to print a single invitation card for a princely sum of Rs 50. We pooled our pin money and the invitation card was in our hands after two days.
But an invitation card without the stamp of the post office of the native place of the student held no importance in the eyes of our housemaster, who used to examine the stamps on letters with a magnifying glass. The envelope carrying our card needed a stamp of the post office of Ludhiana because my friend belonged to the suburbs of that city. Incidentally, at that time of the year, the lone Muslim student of the school, Dawood Ahmed, was granted special leave to celebrate Eid. We requested him to post the card from Ludhiana. He agreed after much cajoling and pleading on the condition that if caught, his name won’t be disclosed.
The card was delivered exactly three days after Dawood posted it from Ludhiana and my homesick friend was granted the much sought after leave. Here, destiny came into play. On the second day into my friend’s hard-earned leave, another invitation card arrived at school. This time from my friend’s home, announcing his sister’s wedding, of course, on a later date.
HOMESICKNESS IS THE ONLY SICKNESS THAT DOESN’T HAVE ANY CURE IN ANY SYSTEM OF MEDICINE