We Are Not a Limited-Time Exhibit

Every summer, they came. The Ohio cousins. With their hybrid accents, performative sighs, and kids who stared at us like we were museum pieces in the “Traditional Indian Relatives” wing.

They called it their “annual parents-meet payana.” I called them “Cultural Tourism Shoppers.”

He’d say “traaffic” like it was a four-letter word. She’d stare at our lived-in Bangalore home as if it were a poorly maintained heritage site.

I considered charging an entrance fee. “Selfies with the auntie: ₹500. Explanations on why we don’t say ‘OMG’: ₹1000.”

Later, during lunch, the kids gave me a shocked stare when I reached for a piece of roti with my hands.

They spoke in unison: “You… eat with your hands? But we always use spoons. It’s so much… cleaner.”

I wanted to say, “Kids, this is how we used to eat. So authentic. You’re seeing what your ancestors actually did. ”

My brother couldn’t hold himself and blurted, “Actually, it improves digestion. But don’t worry — we also discovered spoons”.

They’d boast about seven-seater SUVs and “ethnic aisle” snacks. I’d smile. We had something they didn’t — help at Home, family around the corner, and the freedom to actually enjoy life without a 30-year mortgage. Not to mention, that little Lamborghini in my garage wasn’t for show — it was for joy. And my LV bags didn’t come from a distant “ethnic aisle.” They came from the store down the road.

This is Naya Bharat — where luxury isn’t just owned. It’s enjoyed, leisurely, and personally, on our own terms.

This time, before they could start their well-rehearsed monologue on “how much cleaner America is,” I stood by the door — not with folded hands, but with quiet clarity — and said:

“You want ‘clean’? Clean isn’t a country. It’s a conscience. And real connection doesn’t need a passport.”

“Next time you come,” I said, “don’t come as tourists”. Don’t come to show your kids how Indians live.’ We are not a limited-time exhibit. We are your family. My door is closed to sightseers. But it will always be open — to those who come with love, respect, and genuine connection.”

I added, softer this time: “Home isn’t a place you show off. It’s the place that holds you. And no matter where you go, Matrubhumi will always be the most comforting lap there is.”

They didn’t say much after that. Just nodded. Hugged us like they meant it. For the first time, it felt like a goodbye — not a zoo closing for the day.

Maybe they finally got it.
We aren't a cultural pitstop.
This was your Home once.