My Home

At its heart, My Home is a story of waiting—of love stretched across time and distance, of longing that lingers in the quiet corners of a home. This film was not merely conceived but carried, over years, like an echo that never fades. Since 2016-17, I have sat with women whose lives are defined by absence. Women who wake up to emptiness and go to bed with longing. Women for whom time does not move forward but circles back, again and again, to the same unanswered questions. When I asked them, "What do you miss the most?"—words often failed. Instead, silence would take over. A pause heavy with unspeakable grief, a gaze dissolving into memory. I realized then that silence itself is a language, and I could not bring myself to edit out these silences because within them lived entire lifetimes.

The film follows four women—Saraswati (mother), Mohini (wife), Rama (sister), and Rakhi (daughter)—who wait for Mohan, their loved one, whose unseen presence defines their existence. Their endurance is not swift; it is slow, heavy, eternal. Time does not march forward in their world; it lingers, thickens, suffocates. The walls of a home—meant to shelter—become a quiet prison. A sanctuary and a sentence, all at once.

Beyond the deeply personal, My Home also confronts the hidden costs of migration, shedding light on the human rights atrocities faced by migrant workers during Qatar’s 2022 FIFA World Cup preparations. Through Mohan’s journey, the film reveals the stark reality of those who build nations yet remain invisible in history. This backdrop amplifies the sacrifices borne not only by the workers but also by the families who pay the price of these global spectacles with their longing and love.

Visually, the film mirrors this emotional landscape—shot in a way that confines the characters within the walls of their home, evoking both sanctuary and entrapment. The pacing is deliberate, mirroring the slow, aching passage of time. A mother lighting a lamp, a wife glancing at an empty bed, a sister flipping through old textbooks—these are not just actions; they are testaments to the fragility and strength of their spirits.

Memories slip in like whispers, unstuck from time. The narrative unfolds not in a neat, linear fashion but as these women remember—one moment in the present, speaking of survival, and the next, lost in a story from years ago. Their past is not behind them; it lives within them, bleeding into every moment.

Perhaps I did not dare enough. Perhaps I did not break the rules or push the boundaries as a debut filmmaker might be expected to. But when I was listening to these women, I wasn’t thinking of cinema. I was thinking of their pain, their love, their longing. I was thinking of the silences between their words, the quiet corners of their homes where grief sat like an uninvited guest. I did not seek to impose a bold vision upon their stories. I only sought to reflect them as honestly as I could.

In film school, we are often told that cinema is a reflection of society, a mirror to its realities. My Home is my attempt to hold up that mirror—not polished, not altered, just as I found it, as it was given to me. My hope is that this film will not only evoke empathy but also spark conversations about the systemic inequalities that force families into prolonged separations and exploit vulnerable workers. It is a love letter to the invisible strength of women and a mirror to the dreams and sorrows that define our shared humanity.

Through this film, I invite the audience to sit with the silence, feel the longing, and reflect on the power of love and resilience in the face of absence.