When you think about home, what actually comes to mind? Is it the smell of your mom’s cooking, the specific way the light hits your bedroom floor at 4:00 PM, or is it something way more abstract? For most of us, "home" isn't just a physical address. It’s a feeling. Or, as Harman Kaur argues in her latest work, it's a messy, complicated, and often painful evolution of self.
Call Me Home Harman Kaur isn't just another book of poetry you scroll past on social media. Honestly, it feels like a confrontation. Published in early 2025 by Simon & Schuster, this collection marks a massive shift for the Panjabi Sikh poet who first gained traction on TikTok and through her self-published debut, Phulkari.
While her earlier work introduced us to her voice, Call Me Home is where she really starts to scream—metaphorically, of course. She’s not just talking about being a daughter or an immigrant anymore. She’s dissecting the very architecture of belonging.
The Reality of Call Me Home Harman Kaur
Let’s be real for a second. The "Instapoetry" world is crowded. You’ve seen the minimalist sketches and the three-line verses about heartbreak. Some people love it; some people think it’s the death of "real" literature. But Harman Kaur manages to dodge the "shallow" label by leaning heavily into the specifics of her heritage and the weight of intergenerational trauma.
In Call Me Home, Kaur explores home as something that exists within the body, within spirituality, and within the heavy silence of immigrant households. She was born and raised in British Columbia, Canada, and later moved to the Bay Area in California. That transition—the literal moving of "home"—clearly informs the restlessness in her writing.
One of the most gut-wrenching sections of the book deals with what she calls "Intergenerational Pain." She writes about learning silence from her father and inheriting rage from her mother. It’s a specific kind of inheritance. You don’t get a house or a bank account; you get a way of processing (or not processing) the world.
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Why the Concept of Home Matters Now
We live in a time where people are more displaced than ever. Whether it’s moving for work, fleeing a country, or just feeling like a stranger in your own skin, the idea of "finding home" is a universal obsession.
Kaur’s poetry works because it’s hyper-local yet weirdly universal. She uses terms like "Doli" or "Phulkari" and references the "blood of warriors," grounding her work in Sikh identity. Yet, anyone who has ever felt like they were performing a version of themselves to fit in will find a mirror in these pages.
The book is structured to lead you through a journey of:
- Loss: The shedding of old identities and the grief of what’s left behind.
- Rediscovery: Finding pieces of yourself in rituals, language, and the mirror.
- Healing: The realization that home isn't a destination you arrive at, but a state of being you cultivate.
It's not all "love yourself" platitudes. Some of it is actually quite dark. She writes about numbness and the "anesthesia" of ignoring your own mistakes. It’s that honesty that made her a force on TikTok before she ever had a major publishing deal. People don't want "perfect" anymore; they want "true."
Breaking Down the Style
If you’re looking for Shakespearean sonnets, you’re in the wrong place. Kaur’s style is conversational, raw, and unapologetically modern. She uses short, punchy lines that are designed to be read in a single breath.
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"In another lifetime, I learn not to carry the hurt like a loaded gun. In another lifetime, you are bulletproof."
That’s a line from the poem Chekhov's Gun in the collection. It’s simple. It’s direct. It hurts. This isn't poetry that tries to hide behind flowery metaphors or archaic vocabulary. It’s poetry that wants to be understood.
Critics sometimes argue that this style lacks "depth." But maybe depth isn't about how many footnotes you need to understand a poem. Maybe depth is about how quickly a line can make you close the book and stare at the wall for twenty minutes because it described exactly how you feel about your parents.
The TikTok to Traditional Publishing Pipeline
Harman Kaur is part of a generation of writers who bypassed the "gatekeepers." She didn't wait for a literary journal to validate her. She posted her work online, built a community of over 40,000 followers, and sold 10,000 copies of her first book, Phulkari, on her own.
When Simon & Schuster picked up Call Me Home, they weren't just buying a book; they were buying into a movement. This shift in the publishing world is huge. It means stories about Panjabi Sikh women, which were once relegated to the "niche" section, are now lead titles with 50,000-copy first printings.
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Actionable Insights for Readers and Aspiring Writers
So, what do you actually do with a book like Call Me Home? If you’re a reader, don’t just binge-read it in one sitting. It’s only about 126 pages, so it’s tempting. But poetry needs air.
- Read one poem, then stop. Think about the last time you felt the emotion Kaur is describing.
- Journal the "Home" prompts. Kaur often asks what makes a space feel safe. Write your own definition.
- Look for the gaps. Notice what she doesn't say. The silence in her poems is often as loud as the words.
If you’re a writer looking at Kaur’s success, the takeaway is simple: Specificity is your superpower. Kaur didn't become popular by trying to sound like everyone else. She became popular by writing about her specific family, her specific faith, and her specific struggles.
Call Me Home Harman Kaur is a testament to the fact that our most private, cultural, and "niche" feelings are actually the most relatable things about us. Whether you’re a member of the South Asian diaspora or just someone trying to figure out where they belong, this collection offers a bit of light—or at least a shared darkness—to guide you.
To fully engage with the themes in Call Me Home, start by identifying one "inherited" trait from your family—whether it's a habit, a fear, or a strength—and write down how it has shaped your current sense of belonging. This small act of reflection mirrors the "confronting of pain" that Kaur advocates for throughout her work. By doing this, you move from being a passive consumer of her poetry to an active participant in your own healing process.