I come from a loud household. And by that, I don’t mean that every family member has an extravagant personality or we love blasting music at parties or that we talk in generally higher pitches than most because we live in a big bungalow.

I come from a loud household: which means that when I was drawing dinosaurs one evening and I heard the pressure cooker fall off the gas stove, I hid my colors and sketchbook and picked up the science book and sat in the corner of my room closest to the window so I could hear what they were saying.

I come from a loud household: which means that when my father is on a call and the service is weak and he speaks loudly in the room across the hall, my chest feels heavy with smoke and I hug my knees and turn off the lights and try to breathe deeper. 

I come from a loud household: which means that when at the dinner table when mom and dad have a lover’s fight over the Rotis being half-cooked I put my head down and a teardrop would fall in the milk-rice-sugar combo I was eating and nobody ever saw it.

I come from a loud household: which means that after returning from school I would patiently wait for a call. Of dad saying he would be staying at the office tonight — And then finally breathe free.

I come from a loud household: which means that at 20 I only feel safe when I latch my door from the inside so that I don’t hear anything from the outside. And on the bad days when I do hear something, I curl inside a heavy blanket on a hot summer day to comfort myself.

I come from a loud household: which means when mom comes home late and dinner is not ready and dad has a frown and the adults don’t eat the takeaway, I sneak to the kitchen at midnight and hide all the knives because I am scared of bad things happening.

I come from a loud household: which means that I did not let my mother’s words, “I wish I killed your kids the day they were born,” hurt me because there wasn’t much space for feelings in my loud household.

I come from a loud household: which means that home will never be home for me. And that blood will never feel like family. And that I will never have a family picture on my phone. And that my legs will tremble for thirty minutes minimum after every time I call back home. 

I come from a loud household: which means that all of this is true.