There is a famous legend in Indian history about the arrival of the Parsis (Zoroastrians) in Gujarat over a thousand years ago. When they sought refuge, the local King, Jadav Rana, showed them a bowl of milk filled to the brim, signifying that his kingdom was full.
The Parsi priest took a pinch of sugar and dissolved it in the milk. He didn't spill a drop, but he made the milk sweeter. The King granted them shelter.
I have been thinking about this story lately. It is often cited as the perfect example of assimilation and the Indian ethos of Atithi Devo Bhava—the guest is God.
The Open Door
India’s history is defined by this open door. It wasn't just the Parsis. Over the centuries, the subcontinent became a safe harbor for people fleeing persecution from every corner of the globe.
Jewish communities found safety in Cochin and Mumbai when the rest of the world turned them away. During World War II, when ships full of refugees were being rejected by major powers, the Jam Saheb of Nawanagar welcomed hundreds of Polish orphans, telling them, "I am your father now."
In more recent times, we opened our borders to Tibetan refugees following the Dalai Lama, and to Sri Lankan Tamils fleeing a brutal civil war. We gave them space to breathe, to pray, and to live.
The Tragedy Within
But there is a heavy duality here. While we have been a sanctuary for the world, we have also witnessed the gut-wrenching pain of our own people being uprooted.
The division of India to form Pakistan and East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) remains the largest mass migration in human history. It wasn't just a redrawing of maps; it was the severance of millions of people in Punjab and Bengal from the only soil they had ever known.
decades later, we watched the tragedy of Kashmiri Hindus being forced from the valley. Families who had lived in those mountains for generations were suddenly refugees in their own country, holding onto keys to houses that would eventually crumble or be occupied by strangers.
"There is no tragedy greater than being displaced from your home. It strips away not just a physical structure, but a sense of belonging and identity."
The Universal Pain
When you look at the Sri Lankan Tamils we welcomed, or the Tibetans in Dharamshala, and compare them to the partition survivors or the displaced Kashmiri families, the political context changes, but the human eyes look the same.
It is the look of someone who has lost their anchor.
As we navigate a world that feels increasingly fractured, it is worth remembering this dual history. We have the capacity to be the sugar in the milk, to sweeten the lives of those who have lost everything. But we must also never forget the pain of those who were forced to leave the bowl entirely.
Do you have a family history of migration or displacement? How has it shaped your view of what "home" means today?
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