When I first moved to Sydney, my cravings betrayed me. I didn’t long for the comfort of Indian food; instead, I found myself searching for the fragrant peanut sauce of satay, the rich warmth of rendang, and the spicy bite of sambal. I wandered into an Indonesian eatery, where the familiar aroma wrapped around me like a hug. For a split second, I felt at home—but whose home was it? That exact second served as a reminder of the delicate threads tying together my identity: Indian by heritage, raised in Indonesia, now forging a life in Australia.
I grew up in a home where the air hummed with chatter in Tamil, where the aromas of turmeric and cumin were constant. My parents ensured our Indian roots stretched deep into the soil of our daily lives, no matter how far we were from “home.” They built a community of friends who became like a second family. Together, we celebrated Diwali under Indonesian skies and danced to Bollywood item songs until our laughter drowned out the world.
Yet, each year when we traveled to India, I was reminded of the distance. I carried the culture, yes, but I didn’t fully belong. My accent was a little off, my habits a little foreign, my perspective shaped by lands far from the subcontinent. Family welcomed me with open arms, but I couldn’t shake the quiet sense of being an oddity—a local tourist. I was Indian, but not quite enough.
Indonesia, the place where I grew up, felt more like home in many ways. It taught me the art of kindness and politeness that still threads through my conversations today. “Please” and “thank you” became instinctive, and even now, on tired days, my thoughts stumble into broken Bahasa Indonesia. Yet Indonesia, too, kept me at arm’s length. At school, I wasn’t like the others. My skin, my heritage, my family’s traditions—all markers of difference. There were days when racist remarks stung like nettles, making me wonder where, if anywhere, I truly fit.
Still, I found beauty in Indonesia’s warmth. Over time, the edges of my difference softened. Perhaps I changed; perhaps the people around me did. Either way, the sense of being an outsider blurred, though it never completely disappeared.
Then came Sydney—a new world, a new beginning. Its multicultural heartbeat should have felt familiar, but it came with its own challenges. Making friends with other Indians wasn’t easy; many saw me as “not Indian enough.” The Indonesian community, despite my years immersed in its culture, didn’t consider me one of their own. It was a strange kind of limbo, floating between two worlds that didn’t quite claim me, while trying to find footing in a third.
Yet Sydney also offered clarity. I began to see the threads connecting my three homes, rather than the gaps between them. My upbringing gave me resilience, a quiet confidence in navigating spaces where I didn’t fully belong. It made me open-minded, able to see the world through the kaleidoscope of multiple cultures. In my studies and in my friendships, I carried an innate understanding of nuance, a sense of fairness that came from living in constant negotiation with the cultures around me.
Still, the identity puzzle remains. I am too Indian to be Indonesian, too Indonesian to be Indian, and in Sydney, something neither entirely nor fully either. It’s a balancing act, always shifting, always evolving. But instead of seeing this as a loss, I’ve learned to see it as a gift. I am not limited by one identity. I carry pieces of all three, weaving them together into something uniquely my own.
Home, I’ve realized, is not a single place. It is not bound by geography or culture. For me, it’s the people who understand this strange, beautiful blend. It’s the group of Indian kids who, like me, grew up in Indonesia, who laugh at the same shared quirks of our lives. With them, I don’t have to explain myself.
This life between worlds is not always easy, but it is rich. It has taught me to adapt, to connect, to find joy in diversity. It has given me a perspective that embraces complexity, a heart that feels at home in contradiction. I am not fully Indian, Indonesian, or Australian, and yet I am all of them. I carry their stories, their lessons, their beauty.
This life is not a fracture but a mosaic—a layered, intricate blend of experiences and identities. Each piece, each home, adds something unique to the whole. There’s beauty in the in-between, in belonging to many places and none at all. It’s a story of complexity, richness, and quiet resilience, woven from the threads of everywhere I’ve ever been.
