There’s a moment, right after the adrenaline of the move fades and before the new routine sets in, where the silence becomes deafening. It’s not an absence of sound. In a foreign city, there might be the constant hum of a tram, the chatter of a language you’re still decoding, the wind through unfamiliar trees.
No, the silence is different. It’s the silence of a missing soundtrack. The soundtrack of home.
For an Indian stepping out into the wider world, culture shock is rarely a single, dramatic event. It’s not just about the food or the language. It’s a slow, steady, and deeply personal series of small earthquakes that reshape your entire understanding of “normal.” It’s the thousand tiny papercuts of difference, and the occasional breathtaking vista of connection.
This is for anyone who has ever stood in a giant supermarket, utterly paralyzed by the sheer variety of milk.
The First Tremors: The Sensory Overload (And Underload)
It begins with the body. Your senses, so finely tuned to the rhythm of home, are suddenly playing a completely different score.
The Sound of Silence:
The first thing you notice is the quiet. The absence of the constant, reassuring, chaotic symphony of Indian life—the rattling roar of auto-rickshaws, the fruit seller’s call, the distant film song, the overlapping conversations. The orderliness of it all can feel, strangely, isolating. You miss the beautiful, chaotic noise that meant you were never truly alone.
The Smell of Strangeness:
Your nose is a time machine. And abroad, it’s broken. The smell of damp earth after the first rain—the petrichor we call mitti ki khushboo—is absent. Instead, there might be the scent of fresh bread from a bakery, or chlorine in a swimming pool, or nothing at all. You’ll walk past an Indian restaurant just to catch a fleeting whiff of cumin and coriander, a scent that suddenly feels like a hug from a loved one.
The Personal Space Paradox:
In India, personal space is a luxury often enjoyed in private. In public, we are a collective. We jostle, we queue with a comfortable closeness, a touch on the arm is a normal part of conversation. Abroad, the careful, deliberate maintenance of a two-foot radius can feel incredibly cold. You might find yourself unconsciously standing too close, only to be met with a slight, polite step back. It’s not rejection. It’s just a different dance, and you’ve forgotten the steps.
The Daily Dissonance: Navigating the Unwritten Rules
This is where the real work begins. It’s the mental gymnastics of learning a new set of rules you never knew existed.
The Tyranny of the Appointment:
At home, “See you at 5” is a gentle suggestion, a hopeful meeting point in the river of time. Abroad, 5:00 PM means 5:00:00 PM. The precision is jarring. The fact that shops close at the exact time stated on the door, that friends arrive exactly when they said they would—this newfound respect for the clock is both impressive and exhausting. You miss the fluidity, the understanding that life sometimes gets in the way.
The Politeness Code:
Indian warmth is effusive, inquisitive, and generously intrusive. “Are you married?” “How much do you earn?” “Why not?” It comes from a place of communal caring. Abroad, politeness is often equated with privacy. Conversations are hedged, questions are general, and a “How are you?” is a greeting, not an invitation for a detailed medical report. You might be seen as rude for asking or feel that others are being cold for not asking you. It’s a constant calibration.
The Supermarket Stare-Down:
Grocery shopping, a mundane chore at home, becomes an epic quest. Where is the atta? Is this yogurt or is it curd? Why are there seventeen different types of oatmeal? Why is the milk not in a packet? You will spend minutes staring at shelves, trying to translate not just words, but entire concepts of food and household management.
The Deep Dive: The Emotional Whiplash
After the initial novelty wears off, the real homesickness sets in. This is the “negotiation” phase, where you desperately try to build a bridge between the two worlds inside you.
The Currency Conundrum:
Your brain becomes a frantic math machine. “This sandwich costs 500 rupees?!” The constant mental conversion is draining. You start valuing things not by their local worth, but by what they could get you back home. It makes every purchase feel like a monumental decision.
The Identity Question:
“Where are you really from?” This question, often asked with genuine curiosity, can feel like a splinter. You realize that while you see yourself as Indian, abroad, you are suddenly a “person of colour,” an “immigrant,” a “foreigner.” You are forced to confront your identity in a way you never had to at home. You are an ambassador for a billion people, whether you signed up for it or not.
The Festival Phantom Limb:
You’ll be going about your day when a notification pops up. It’s Diwali. Or Holi. Or Eid. Back home, the entire city is thrumming with energy. There are lights, sounds, smells, family, and chaos. You look outside your window. It’s a Tuesday. The disconnect is visceral, like a phantom limb itching. You try to recreate it—cook a special meal, video call family—but it’s not the same. The context is missing.
The Turning Tide: Finding Your Rhythm
But then, something shifts. Slowly, almost imperceptibly.
You master the public transport map. You find that one Indian store run by a friendly uncle who gets in fresh parathas on Sundays. You make a local friend who patiently explains the etiquette of a pub quiz.
You start to appreciate the silence for the peace it offers. You begin to see the value in punctuality, not as a rigid constraint, but as a form of respect for others’ time. You even start to enjoy the startling crispness of the air and the breathtaking cleanliness of public spaces.
You stop converting currency. You just… buy the sandwich.
You become a hybrid. You learn to code-switch—boisterous and warm with your Indian friends, more measured and reserved in your local pub. You collect the best of both worlds, creating your own unique rulebook.
The culture shock doesn’t disappear. It just becomes a part of you. The longing for home becomes a sweet, bittersweet ache you learn to live with, a reminder of a deep, powerful love for your roots. And the new country transforms from a series of confusing rules into a place of your own making.
You realize you haven’t lost your home. You’ve gained a new lens through which to see it. And you’ve built a new home, too—one that lives not just in a physical place, but in the expanded, more resilient, and more understanding world inside you.
The silence is finally filled with a new soundtrack. One you composed yourself.