Life was difficult for my family, as we didn't know where to go

Host: The train station hummed with the weary rhythm of human movement — the sound of luggage wheels, voices, and the distant cry of a vendor selling chai. The sun hung low over the horizon, painting the edges of steel rails in muted gold. Heat shimmered above the tracks, thick and alive, as if the city itself were breathing.

Jack stood by the railing, his shirt collar loosened, a small duffel bag at his feet. His face was still, but his eyes — those grey, searching eyes — carried the exhaustion of someone who had arrived and not yet decided whether he belonged.

Behind him, Jeeny emerged from the crowd, her scarf fluttering in the warm air, her steps slow, deliberate. She carried two paper cups of tea, steam curling from their rims like small ghosts of comfort. She handed one to Jack without a word.

For a moment, they stood side by side, looking out at the endless rails stretching toward the city’s heart — Mumbai, sprawling, indifferent, magnificent.

Jeeny: softly “Kunal Khemu once said — ‘Life was difficult for my family, as we didn’t know where to go after leaving Kashmir. We settled down in Mumbai, in a suburb called Mira Road.’”

Jack: takes a sip, nodding slowly “Displacement always tastes like that — bitter at first, then warm once you stop fighting it.”

Jeeny: “You’ve felt that?”

Jack: smiles faintly, eyes on the horizon “Haven’t we all? Some of us just move houses. Others move worlds.”

Host: The train horn wailed in the distance — low, melancholy, ancient. The crowd shifted, as if the sound itself were a command. A child’s laughter pierced the air, followed by a mother’s scolding tone. Mumbai, in all its contradictions, pulsed around them like a living heart.

Jeeny: “You think it ever gets easier — starting over?”

Jack: pauses “No. But it gets familiar. Pain becomes a language you learn to speak fluently.”

Jeeny: “And belonging?”

Jack: shrugs “That’s the hard part. Belonging’s not about where you are — it’s about where you stop running.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the scent of rain and the faint perfume of jasmine from a nearby vendor. Jeeny leaned against the railing, watching a young couple sit together on a bench — a suitcase between them, hands intertwined.

Jeeny: “You know, I read that Khemu’s family left Kashmir during the violence. They lost their home, their land, their identity — everything but their name. Imagine that… being forced to leave everything that defined you.”

Jack: quietly “You don’t have to imagine. History does that to people every day.”

Jeeny: “Still… he said it without bitterness. That line — it isn’t angry. It’s… grounded. Like he found peace with it somehow.”

Jack: “Maybe peace isn’t about forgetting where you came from. Maybe it’s just learning to carry it differently.”

Jeeny: “Like luggage?”

Jack: smiling faintly “Like luggage that gets lighter the longer you hold it.”

Host: A train screeched into the station, the metal grinding against metal. Dust swirled around them. Passengers pressed forward, their faces a collage of anticipation, fatigue, and hope.

Jeeny: raising her voice slightly over the noise “Do you think people ever stop being refugees in their own lives?”

Jack: turns toward her, his tone soft but firm “Maybe not. But if you plant something, even a memory, it can grow roots anywhere.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “So, Mira Road was their soil.”

Jack: “Yeah. And look — that’s the thing about cities like Mumbai. It doesn’t ask where you came from. It just demands you show up. You give it everything you have — and maybe, if you’re lucky, it gives you something back.”

Host: The train doors opened. People spilled out — families, workers, dreamers. The platform buzzed with stories that no one had time to tell.

Jeeny watched a boy jump onto the platform, holding his father’s hand, eyes wide with wonder at the sheer immensity of the city. She smiled.

Jeeny: “You know, that’s what I love about cities like this. Every soul walking past you has survived something. And yet, here they are — selling, shouting, building, living.”

Jack: nodding “Survival has its own beauty. It’s not polished, but it’s real.”

Host: The crowd thinned. The sky began to darken, heavy with the promise of monsoon. The first drops of rain fell — soft, hesitant. Then harder, rhythmic.

Jack lifted his face to it, eyes closed.

Jack: murmuring “Maybe that’s what Khemu meant without saying it. Life was difficult — but it continued. It found a rhythm. Like rain after drought.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Like jazz after silence.”

Jack: “Like home after exile.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the roof of the platform, washing the dust off the city’s skin. People ran for shelter; children laughed as puddles formed at their feet.

Jeeny and Jack didn’t move. They just stood there — drenched, still, peaceful — watching Mumbai breathe.

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s the moment you stop longing for somewhere else.”

Jack: “And just live where your feet are.”

Jeeny: nods “Exactly.”

Host: A train whistle cut through the storm — long, aching, alive. Jeeny turned to him, her hair soaked, eyes bright with something raw and human.

Jeeny: “You think he ever misses it? Kashmir?”

Jack: after a pause “You never stop missing what made you. You just make peace with the missing.”

Host: She looked at him, and for a moment, the noise of the world seemed to fade. The station, the trains, the rain — everything blurred into stillness.

Jeeny: “That’s wisdom.”

Jack: smiling faintly “No, that’s survival.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two figures standing under a leaking awning, the rain cascading around them, the city roaring with life.

And as the lights of Mumbai began to glow through the storm — soft, endless, forgiving — the truth in Kunal Khemu’s words found its echo:

That difficulty is not the end,
but the first seed of belonging.

That from the ache of displacement grows a deeper root —
not in land,
but in spirit.

And that sometimes, the hardest journey
is simply learning to call your new place home.