NashikI have now spent 25% of my life living away from home. Yet surprisingly, I am expected to be completely Indian in India. On the other hand, I haven’t myself figured out how to be a 3/4th Indian either. What part must I keep out? What part must I retain?
Every year that I come back home, It becomes a measure of my square peg against the round holes of India. Every year, it is a little harder to wedge myself in and just when I think I am making decent progress I have to dislodge myself to become a completely different round peg in America’s Midwest squares.
I keep searching for what has changed. Amidst the new cement constructions, unruly traffic and inflated incomes I find that not much has changed within my circle of influence. My mom worries just as much and my dad insist just as much. The clear Nashik air has held out against Mumbai’s incoming onslaught of rich immigrant exhales. The vacations in India are drop dead gorgeous. My dearest friends still crack the same low grade jokes and remain reminiscent of the same high grade glory days. And the plethora of food, from a top notch restaurant to a road-side meal, everything has been just as I remember. Super.
Noise continues to be India special. Noise is certainly the wrong word due to its inherent connotation of being negative. I much rather term all of it as pure sounds of vibration. My name is pronounced in the right fashion right from an acquaintance, to a stranger and to some who I met for the first time. The sizzling of onions and spices coming from my mom’s kitchen is the best predictor of a delicious meal. The incessant barrage of noises from the road is a constant distraction. The old red buses squeal indifferently to brake applies. Horns honk and squeak from all directions trying desperately to differentiate each other in the land of one billion. The ceiling fan doubles up as a lullaby as I go to bed. The street hawkers yell out unintelligible words but I know exactly if they are selling guavas or collecting trash.
The hodge-podge of Indian languages around me fascinates me in its composition. All Indian languages with their intense and far different sounds mix with each other in chaotic fashion like a traffic intersection. There is nothing similar anywhere else in the world. While my ear perks at a slightly different accent in English in the states, I have a field day listening to the multitude of languages. These languages continue to be the master of ceremony in the orchestra that is India.
Like riding a cycle, coming back home is easily achievable. I have the technique but may be the skills are fading away. So, I get to my destination slower and perhaps more exasperated.
The fact remains is that I get there. And then promptly come back home.
A very long time back, this blog used to make me envious of the exactness of home, not so much now. But probably that's not such a bad thing either…it's okay to evolve as you whether a quarter here or there and then Dush perhaps you'd like to belong to people more than places…
Perhaps you are right. Perhaps nothing is exact anymore..
Calls for renaming the blog….A 12 hour journey from "Home is where the heart is" to " Heart is where the home is"..:)
Mukund: Stay tuned for the next post. Think you might have more to add 🙂
Dude, you can take an Indian out of India but you cannot take India out of an Indian…. you'll do just fine 😉