the concept of home
I was born in Durban, South Africa to two bright-eyed South African Indian people in 1988. My parents brought me home to my paternal grandparents’ house in Merebank and from then, that house was home no matter where I moved. It is a three bedroom house my grandfather built in 1960, that is still standing 61 years later. It was built in anticipation of my father’s birth the following year, just after my grandparents married. In those days, living in Apartheid South Africa, contracts were unfair and housing was not easily accessible for people of colour. The plot was one allocated to Indian people under the Group Areas Act (an act that aimed at eliminating mixed and multiracial neighbourhoods).
I've moved more than 11 times in my life. Moving so often has taught me a lot about detaching myself from sentimentality and "things", and it’s affected me in other ways. My grandparents’ and their house became a fixture of "home" to me. It remains the place that grounds me and gives me a sense of belonging.
Despite the difficulties of living through the height of violent racial oppression, I grew up with an unparalleled unconditional love. My grandparents played a significant role in that. My grandparents were both teachers by profession and, in many ways, they were my greatest teachers.
As time moves by, I find myself reminiscing on much of my personhood. As the eldest of four grandchildren, my bond with my grandparents inside their home always felt like safety. Because so much of myself is intrinsically linked to my grandparents, unexpectedly losing my grandmother last year to Covid-19 felt like a huge foundational shift inside me and forced me to truly look for a new sense of grounding despite them now both being gone. In many ways, she held space for keeping his legacy alive since in 2007 when he passed, and found solace in remembering.
I have now found joy in remembering too.
I can still hear my laugh echoing through the long passage from their bedroom, I still smell fish curry being braised on the stove by my grandmother, I can still feel the breeze on my face through the back door and with that, on those balmy nights, I can see my grandfather sitting on the floor next to the radio.
Growing up, nobody was as infallible as my grandfather. I looked at him with complete adoration and aspiration. So much of what I’ve become has rested in what I saw in him. I wanted to be just like him, and the best part is that he never made me feel like could be that, and more.
My grandfather taught me to believe in myself. He embodied love, honesty, emotions, and friendship. He was forthright and outspoken, and never policed my thoughts. A history and English teacher, he was a bit of a literary snob and could easily recite histories from memories with vigour. It was awe-inspiring to hear him speak. He shared stories with me in the 90s and early 2000s about his time organising during the liberation struggle, and he told those stories with such passion that it always made me feel that I had a duty towards change too. When I read Nelson Mandela’s “Long Walk To Freedom” at 11 years old and realised he was an attorney, I knew it was what I had to become too. Not just because of the foundation of justice law brings but because in my little mind, I knew that it was another step towards being what my grandfather wanted of me, especially because he did not have the opportunity to become an attorney himself.
He wrote with the most beautiful handwriting and spoke with the most emotive language. He journaled and story shared and was the most generous human being I’ve ever known (next to my own father).
My grandmother was a rock. She was strong-willed, protective, and quietly opinionated. She never let anything, or anyone get in her way; she was not a pushover – she was in control and held herself steady in the face of strife. Wise and collected, she did not let her worries become anyone else’s. I got to see their idiosyncrasies and quirks. Like my grandfather really liked listening to Ricky Martin and watching Tom and Jerry with my brother. My grandmother was super interested in the popular culture, especially the Kardashians! They both soaked up the newspaper daily and were extremely loyal friends to each other and others, always making time to check in and be there for anyone who needed them. They cared.
Many people don’t have the privilege of meeting their grandparents and so the luxury is not lost on me. I didn’t just get to meet them, I got to know them. These images and descriptors are paintings in my mind – etched, faded, textured, and nuanced. And it’s in these memories that I find joy and remember my purpose, especially when I feel lost. I remember HOME in these moments.
Home is memories. Home is lived experiences. Home is food. Home is the smallest things that take you back to happiness and sadness and everything rolled up in between. It's people. It is those who made you. I can think of these anecdotes now without crying but rather with strength and lineage and love.
Because it’s not just about who I am, but whose I am, as a dear friend of mine told me once.
Mayuri Govender