HSC Belonging Short Story

I asked A.I to re-create my HSC Belonging Story. I gave as much detail as possible from memory. Below is what it spat out ...

The Great Kothu Roti Rebellion

The unmistakable rhythm of baila music, a Sri Lankan staple, thrummed from a half-open window as Malindu parked his beat-up Holden Commodore across from the house. The melody, once a comfort, now held a bittersweet sting. He hadn't set foot in this monotonous sprawl of identical brick bungalows in over six months, not since The Great Kothu Roti Rebellion.

Six months ago, the air crackled with accusations and flying kothu roti. Malindu, at eighteen, dared to question the rigid structure of his Sri Lankan household. Curfews meant for children, not nearly grown men? Unthinkable! Dating a girl outside their cultural circle? Preposterous! His parents, weathered by years of exile and clinging to tradition like a life raft, had seen their son slipping away, morphing into a sun-bleached Aussie bloke with a penchant for thongs and late-night cricket matches.

"You're becoming a wonder white-bread Aussie," his Thatha had thundered, his voice laced with disappointment. "You've forgotten where you come from."

Malindu scoffed. "I was born here, Thatha. This is where I'm from."

Silence, heavy and oppressive, followed. Then, his mother's voice, a low murmur laced with finality.

"Get out," she said, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "Don't come back until you remember who you are."

That's how Malindu found himself in a shoebox apartment, microwaved curry his closest companion. Tonight, however, the pull of forgotten belongings proved too strong.

He took a deep breath, the humid Sydney air thick with the aroma of curry leaves and chilli – a fragrance that used to make him think of home, now a reminder of a fractured past. Laughter, tinged with the unmistakable shrill of his younger sister, spilled out from an open window. He winced. An image of Nisha, his best friend growing up, flooded his mind. He missed their late-night gossip sessions, her voice a constant in the chaos of his adolescence.

Heaving the rusty gate open with a groan, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. The frangipani tree in the front yard, its creamy white flowers heavy with dew, used to be his mother's pride and joy. Now, it looked neglected, with browning petals scattered like confetti on the parched lawn. He remembered the hours spent under its cool shade, escaping the midday sun while his mother droned on about the virtues of filial piety.

Inside, the air hung heavy with the musky aroma of incense and the comforting smell of his mother's mutton curry simmering on the stove. A rumble in his stomach reminded him he hadn't had a decent meal since… well, since The Great Kothu Roti Rebellion. Stepping cautiously into the kitchen, he saw his mother bent over the steaming pot, her face etched with worry lines.

"Amma?" (Mom?) he ventured, the word unfamiliar on his tongue.

His mother whirled around, her eyes widening in surprise before hardening with hurt. "Malindu? What are you doing here?"

The fight. The accusations. The hurt. It all came rushing back, hot and suffocating. He wanted to reach out, to bridge the chasm that had opened between them, but the words wouldn't come. He mumbled something about needing some clothes and retreated to his old room.

His childhood haven, plastered with faded posters of Sri Lankan cricketers, felt like a mausoleum of memories. Opening his closet, a stale scent – a mix of old schoolbooks, spilled sunscreen, and the faint sweetness of Nisha's mango perfume – assaulted his senses. He spotted a familiar Sri Lankan cricket jersey, worn thin from years of backyard matches with Nisha. It was the one he'd worn on the day they'd “eloped” to a local milkshake bar, a scandal that had ended with Nisha's parents lecturing her for hours.

A choked sob escaped his lips. Nisha. His sister. His family. Where did he belong?

Packing felt like piecing together a fractured self. Memories clung to each item – a dented cricket bat marking a childhood victory, a dog-eared copy of "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" that had earned him a lecture on the importance of respecting tradition, a worn leather keychain shaped like a lion, a gift from his Thatha.

He was just about to leave when he caught a whiff of fresh paint. He followed his nose to the garage, his heart pounding in his chest. On the once pristine white door, a stark message glared back at him in bold red letters:

"Go back to where you came from."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. It wasn't just him who felt out of place. His family, adrift in a sea of cultural expectations, felt like outsiders too.