Homecoming

The last time I took a week-long vacation leave from work and headed to my hometown up north, I had two things in mind. One, be disconnected completely from computers and mobile phones and just lounge around our old daybed under a mango tree reading a book and two, be connected with my old high school classmates who have opted to remain in the province to build their family lives there. While the former mission offered a soothing relief from the harsh pressure of city life, the latter left me excruciatingly worn out from heavy thinking.

As you would have thought, those ones who stayed home in the province after high school are all married now. They obtained their undergraduate degrees from a local college and now are either self-employed or are working for the government. They are all visibly darker now, most have put on weight, a few have saggy eyebags, and a number have to endure bulky and calloused hands. They have gradeschool-aged kids by their sides while one or two were expecting new babies that time.

I try to put off inquisitive thoughts and questions from my mind when I visit them and remind myself to concentrate only on light stuff. These light stuff, regrettably, are quite limited to certain generic updates like local politics, commodity prices, who has recently gone home, what’s the latest fad among kids to name a few. When we find ourselves coming to awkward silences, I almost always end up reliving the old days and how things have changed. That gets us perked up even more. They start filling me up with the latest village chismis, most of them I normally don’t get from my relatives. I’d be delighted no end, which they love, and which I’m secretly thankful for. My excitement gives me an extra advantage. They forget to ask questions about my non-working life and nocturnal activities; something I would have to work on explaining when queried.

Not because I have something to hide nor I live a fugitive’s life. It’s not that. It’s more about carefully trying to sift through my stories and take away those details that they won’t be able to relate to or those which may unwittingly cause them to feel inferior because they will mostly hear about night-long dancing in a fancy bar or late-night coffees in a hotel lobby or weekend trips to a resort. The last thing I wanted to happen is setting a stage for my side of things to glow and, in the end, snatch for myself what could have been one of few opportunities for my less-privileged classmates to feel important.

Eventually, I disclose nothing significant about myself and the things I do in the city. They just know I’m working and still single. And happy. It’s better that way, I think. They see I’m genuinely interested about them and their stories. I make sure they have my full attention for whatever they reveal about the budding family lives they have. This is about them. Besides, it’s no use harping about projects I'm working on back at work or the company I work for. Those are hardly meaningful to them.