I sit with a group of students in the classroom of a popular English language school in central Kerala, South India. Every day, by noon, the air temperature and humidity soar, but their effects are softened by the lack of window glass, allowing the wind to blow freely and create a light, refreshing breeze.
We’re discussing how the students imagine their life after they successfully migrate abroad for work, which is why they are all here; passing an English language exam is required in many of their preferred destination countries. I’m especially interested in hearing about how they intend to keep in touch with their ageing parents who may, at some point, be in need of care. Matthew, a young male nurse, is adamant – talking to your ageing parents via Skype can never make caring for them, good. “You need to be there, physically, to provide love and affection,” he claims.
How, then, would Alice, an elderly widow – with a daughter, nurse, in Australia and a son in Dubai – feel about living completely alone?
When I arrive at Alice’s recently renovated three-story home, surrounded by a lush garden, I am in for a surprise. By this home visit, I have heard a lot about devastated older people, abandoned by their children, seeking material gain abroad. But Alice doesn’t appear devastated, abandoned, or even sad. Instead, her attitude towards the migration of her children is very pragmatic. She says firmly:
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