After watching Meiyazhagan, I made the mistake of sitting quietly for a few minutes.

That’s dangerous.

Because the moment a middle-class kid sits quietly, old memories start arriving without invitation.

Suddenly, I wasn’t in my apartment anymore.

I was back in that old neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else’s business before they knew their own.

Back when relatives didn’t need Google Maps to find your house.

Back when visiting someone’s home didn’t require checking calendars, availability slots, and sending a meeting invite.

You just appeared.

And somehow there was always tea.

And snacks.

And an auntie asking, “Beta, pehchana mujhe?” while fully aware that you had absolutely no idea who she was.

The beauty of Meiyazhagan is that it reminds us of something modern life has quietly stolen from us.

Relationships that existed without purpose.

Nobody was networking.

Nobody was building a personal brand.

Nobody was talking about productivity hacks.

People simply showed up.

Today, I have hundreds of contacts in my phone.

Yet the number of people who can walk into my house without calling first is probably lower than my monthly internet speed.

Growing up in a middle-class family meant every relative was part of your childhood.

Some uncle’s bicycle,i used to learn to ride a bicycle.

Some auntie force-fed you sweets.

Some cousin borrowed my dresses and never returned it.

Some neighbor who kept all the watch on your mischief, more than your parents did.

And somehow everybody belonged to everybody.

Then life happened.

Education happened.
Jobs happened.
Cities happened.
Suddenly we became adults.

The same people who lived ten minutes away now live somewhere inside old photographs.

Now our family gatherings are mostly conducted through WhatsApp groups where nobody reads messages but everyone sends Good Morning flowers.

The funny thing is that I worked hard to leave that life behind.

Like every ambitious middle-class child, I wanted bigger cities, better opportunities, corporate success, and air-conditioned offices.

Mission accomplished.

Now I spend my days attending meetings with people whose birthdays I don’t know, while forgetting the birthdays of people who watched me grow up.

What an upgrade.

Somewhere along the way, I exchanged familiar faces for LinkedIn connections.

And honestly, that’s both impressive and heartbreaking.

Meiyazhagan reminded me that nostalgia is not about old houses.

It’s about old versions of ourselves.

The version that knew every neighbor.

The version that had time.

The version that wasn’t always rushing somewhere.

The version that belonged.

Maybe that’s why the movie hits so hard.

Because deep down, many of us middle-class migrants carry two addresses.

One is where we currently live.

The other is where our memories still pay rent.

And the strange thing is…

The second one still feels more like home.