Call Me Home by Harman Kaur is a deeply personal and evocative collection that explores themes of Sikhi, womanhood, loss, generational trauma, and cultural memory. Rooted in the voices of Punjabi women, especially grandmothers and mothers whose pain has long been silenced, the poetry captures the emotional labor and sacrifices women make to keep families and traditions intact, often at the cost of their own well being.
Among the most memorable pieces are Secret Rage, Anticipatory Grief, Dear Brown Girl, and Conversation with My Guru. These poems resonated with me, particularly Secret Rage, which explores grief and longing for maternal figures. Having never met my own nani ji (maternal grandmother), I found this poem especially moving. Kaur’s writing speaks with quiet strength, capturing the spiritual and emotional tension experienced by diasporic and homeland-based Punjabi women. Her verses reflect a reverence for Sikh teachings, combined with an honest reckoning of how faith intersects with feminine identity and resilience.
There is undeniable merit in Kaur’s ability to give voice to silenced women. She highlights the unseen, unspoken pain passed down across generations, the quiet endurance, the caretaking, the deferred dreams. Her exploration of grief, identity, and devotion through the lens of Punjabi womanhood is valuable and worthy of attention.
However, while I respect the intentions and themes behind the collection, Call Me Home is not without contradictions that left me uneasy. A particular moment that stood out and not in a positive way, was her tribute poem to Deep Sidhu. As a Sikh and a reader who holds womanhood and integrity in high regard, I found this choice troubling. While I understand his significance in a political context, I cannot overlook the moral complexity of celebrating a man who was reportedly married with a daughter, yet was also in a public relationship with another woman at the time of his death. Some claim he was separated from his wife, but others close to the family dispute that. The facts may remain ambiguous, but the emotional reality for his wife and daughter is not.
For a poet whose work centres women’s pain and loyalty, to offer tribute without acknowledgment of this contradiction feels like a dismissal of another woman’s suffering. It is difficult to reconcile this with the overall feminist and Sikh principles the book otherwise upholds. This inconsistency dulled my emotional engagement with the collection and left me questioning whether selective empathy undermines the very message the poet aims to amplify.
Overall, Harman Kaur’s Call Me Home is a thoughtful debut that gives language to generational sorrow and devotion. It shows promise and sincerity in many places, but its blind spots particularly when it comes to the lived experiences of all women cannot be ignored. For readers interested in Punjabi feminism and faith centred storytelling, it may still be worth reading.