9 August, Singapore

“You don’t sound Indian,” the boy had said at the kopitiam when Kavya ordered her teh c kosong. He’d grinned, like it was a compliment.

Kavya had smiled tightly, thanked him, and walked away. She was used to it.

Born and raised in Singapore, she knew the National Day Parade theme song by heart and could switch between English, Tamil, and a sprinkle of Mandarin like a linguistic gymnast. But somewhere between “pure” Singaporean and “actual” Indian, she felt like she belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.

She’d grown up visiting temples on weekends, dancing Bharatanatyam at community festivals, and eating prata after tuition class. But whenever she visited Little India, there was always someone who’d ask, “You from here or there?” and she never had a clear answer.

This year, she wanted something more. Something beyond tidy traditions and carefully curated heritage trails. She booked a solo trip to India, to Madurai, the city where her grandmother had been born.

“Why now?” Amma had asked, frowning over her glasses.

“I want to feel where I come from,” Kavya replied. “I want to be in India on Independence Day.”

Her mother had sighed but said nothing. That night, she slipped an old photograph into Kavya’s bag: a black-and-white picture of a young woman in a half-saree standing in front of the Meenakshi Temple.

11 August, Madurai, India

The heat struck like a drumbeat. Everything in Madurai pulsed: the honks, the temple bells, and the jasmine sellers with their hypnotic chants.

Kavya stayed in a modest homestay just off a street flanked by banana trees and walls stained with old film posters. The house had creaky wooden shutters, a courtyard with a mango tree, and an old woman who insisted Kavya eat second helpings of everything.

The rhythm of life was different here. Slower, louder, more chaotic, and strangely comforting. Kavya spent her mornings walking to temples and her afternoons scribbling in a notebook she carried everywhere. She didn’t know what she was writing—just thoughts, feelings, and fragments of herself.

12 August, Madurai

On her second morning, Kavya heard a ruckus in the alley. She stepped out and saw a girl, barefoot, dust-streaked, and laughing, chasing a runaway calf down the narrow lane. The girl caught it by the rope, scolded it gently in Tamil, and looked up to see Kavya watching.

“You look like you’re from here but also… not,” the girl said, grinning.

Kavya laughed. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that. I’m Singaporean. My grandma was from here.”

“Then you’re one of us,” the girl declared. “I’m Meenal. Come. We’re painting flags today. For August 15. Want to help?“

Kavya blinked. “Me? I don’t really paint…”

“That’s okay. You’ll learn. We’re not picky about strokes, only spirit.“

And just like that, she was pulled into a swirling circle of colours, cloth, and conversation.

13 August, Madurai

They sat under a neem tree, painting tiny Indian flags on scraps of cloth. Children swirled around them, cheeks smeared with green and orange.

“What’s National Day like in Singapore?” Meenal asked, dabbing white onto a fabric square.

“There’s a huge parade. Fireworks. Everyone wears red and white. But… it feels curated. Clean.”

“You miss mess?” Meenal teased.

“I miss… rawness. My identity feels like a fusion dish sometimes. Indian, but diluted. Singaporean, but never quite full-blooded.“

Meenal paused and dipped her brush into green. “Being Indian isn’t about passports. It’s about stories. Smells. The way your body remembers mangoes even when your tongue forgets.”

Kavya looked at her. “You make it sound like poetry.“

“It is. We’re both translations of something old and beautiful.”

They sat in silence for a while. A small girl brought them sliced raw mango with chilli salt. Kavya bit into it, eyes watering from the tang.

“This,” she said, “tastes like my grandmother’s kitchen. I didn’t even know I remembered.”

Meenal smiled. “See? That’s the thing about home. It sneaks up on you.”

14 August, Madurai

That evening, Meenal took her to a rooftop near the temple.

“We come here every year to light paper lanterns,” she said. “Some say they carry prayers. Others say they chase away the shadows.”

As the sky dimmed, they lit small lanterns and watched them rise. Kavya stood quietly, fingers curled around her wrist.

“My parents wanted me to study engineering. I chose literature instead,” Meenal said suddenly. “They said it was a waste. But I like words. Words are how I remember who I am.”

Kavya looked at her. “You’re lucky you even knew. I feel like I’m always translating what I want, who I am, who people think I should be.”

“Maybe identity isn’t about choosing one version. Maybe it’s about collecting them, like shells. Some smooth, some cracked. But all real.”

15 August, Madurai

The morning was thick with saffron skies and fried vadai. Children marched barefoot with tricolour kites and hand-painted flags. The air buzzed with pride, promise, and powdered colours.

Meenal tugged Kavya to the rooftop.

“Here. Yours.“

Kavya took the spool and launched her kite into the air.

It wobbled at first, then caught the wind. Higher, stronger.

Below, loudspeakers blared patriotic songs. Kavya felt the strings burn gently against her fingers.

“You know,” she said softly, “In Singapore, we sing ‘One People, One Nation, One Singapore.’ But I never understood how to be one thing.”

Meenal grinned. “Maybe we aren’t meant to be one thing. Maybe we’re meant to be many.”

They watched the sky fill with colour. Saffron, white, green, and somewhere, Kavya imagined, red and white too.

“I came here to find roots,” she said. “But I think I’ve found mirrors.”

One Week Later, Back in Singapore

Back in Singapore, the sky was cleaner, the traffic neater, and the air-conditioning colder.

On her desk sat a jar of Madurai earth, still smelling faintly of turmeric and dust.

On the wall: two flags. Side by side. Equal in colour, different in rhythm.

She opened her journal and flipped to the back.

A new note from Meenal had arrived by post.

Dear Kavya,

Happy National Day (again)! Mango season starts in March. Your kite is still flying, by the way.

We saved the spot on the rooftop for you.

Kavya smiled and picked up her pen.

Dear Meenal,

Tell the mangoes I’m coming. And this time, I’m bringing chilli salt.