In a land far far away

In light of what happened in Bombay yesterday I have been feeling esp. depressed. And missing home even more. I had started writing this post earlier.
This one is for everything India stands for. And how much it means to me.
Here's to the spirit and the resilience of my people.

I was talking to my friend the other day and he was questioning why most Indians tend to precipitate together at office parties and social gatherings. Oh yes, and I'm talking specifically about the Indians abroad who are away from their home. And it got me thinking. True I have friends who are not Indian, but a large chunk of my social circle comprises of Indians, and coming to think of it mostly Bongs. And I think I know why. It's the common ground that we share, of similar backgrounds, cultural bonding and understanding that can be traced back to our pre-immigrant days.

Every Indian I know here in the US misses home. India is a treasure chest of sepia-tinged memories and nostalgia. And at the slightest mention of old and fond things from back home the memories get rustled up and we gravitate towards strangers to catch up and talk about India. This is especially true if the people come from the same city. All the more fun as many more memories can be exchanged and shared. We can talk about schools and college experiences and the "do you know so-and-so" banter, resturants and places we used to hang out, how much things have changed and when was the last time we were visiting. The list goes on. So why do Indians precipitate? I guess because of the familiarity and easy identification with each other.

My Dad always said that the main reason he did not settle abroad and kind of rushed back to settle down in India before I started going to school was his fear of raising a daughter in a foreign place, in a culture that he was not comfortable with. And as a kid I envied my cousins who were growing up in UK and USA and hassled my parents for not giving me the chance to grow up and live abroad. But now after all these years I realize what a blessing it was to be able to grow up in a place among family and friends, living and learning about our cultural heritage and being able to identify with things that I would never have known otherwise.

There are things that I would laugh about when I was in India. You know the kind which one tries to deny when they are trying their best to emulate the West. Things that I did not realize the value or significance of, while I had them easily available. Things I could care less about back home in India. Yet now, with the whole uprooting and isolation in effect I have started realizing the importance of so many things. And I miss so much. So very much.

The rain. It rains a lot over here in Virginia. But somehow it doesn't have the same feel as a sudden summer norwester in Calcutta. The swiftness with which one takes shelter under the leaking roof of a roadside shop. And watch other people hurrying past with their wet umbrellas. And the water beginning to accumulate in huge puddles. And sloshing through the waterlogged streets in the uncomfortable Sandak sandals from Bata. God how I hated those shoes! But then nothing would convince me to soak my fancy leather sandals in the rain water.

And returning home to find hot tea and fried pakora. And may be khichuri for dinner.

Drinking tea from matir bhar (earthenware). This I especially associate with my college days when we would stop by a roadside stall after night-duty and drink tea from this enormous bhar. It was priced at Rs 5 which was a luxury considering a regular bhar of tea would cost less than a rupee. The tea tastes so different in a bhar. I think it takes on the smell of the earth which adds flavor.

Window shopping at Gariahat. Gushing over the gorgeous sarees that they would have on display at Trader's Assembly and Indian Silk House. And ending up buying earrings from the hawkers who traded on the streets.

Talking of sarees I think it is the most beautiful dress an Indian girl can wear. Almost every Indian female I know looks absolutely ravishing when they wrap a saree around them. I find it elegant as well as sexy. I had decided that once I got married I would only wear sarees and leave aside my usual wardrobe of jeans and skirts. And true to my word when I got married and came to the US my luggage did not contain anything but sarees and I spent the first few months going everywhere dressed in the traditional saree. We were living at that time in a really small town in the Midwest, a place which was primarily white American with a handful of foreigners. Needless to say I would be catching attention everywhere I went. People would wave at me and smile and stop to admire my "dress". It was a little awkward to be honest. Then I started to go to work and that required me to be dressed more appropriately and I had to go to the store to buy clothes more suited for the work environment here. I miss not being able to wear a saree.

Durga Pujo. Lal-paar saree. Sakha, paula, nowa (traditional bracelets of conch, coral and iron). Dhaak. Sandhi Pujo. Thakur baran. Well, can't say enough about Pujo in Calcutta. Therefore I'll leave it at that.

Lakshmi Pujo at home. Uposh (fast) and alpona (decorative motifs on the ground with rice flour). Alta pora ( I don't know what alta is but it is a red liquid which women in Bengal use to decorate the feet) and poribeshon kora (serving food).

Biye bari (weddings). Dressing up and looking out for eligible bachelors. Sticking together with friends and giggling at the slightest pretext. Staying up all night in the bashor, singing, dancing and eyeing the groom's goodlooking friend.

Rabindrasangeet. There was time when I found Rabindrasangeet monotonous and boring. But that was before I even started to realize that it went so much deeper than the melodies. Given the proper context they can drive me to tears these days.

Phuchka, jhaalmuri, alukabli. Egg-chicken roll. Mutton chop and fish fry. Chinese from Tangra. Biriyani from Shiraz. Momo at Elgin road. Kwality ice cream.

Bunking class to catch a matinee show at Nandan. Skipping the movie. Sitting aimlessly near the jheel. Adda.

Cricket at Eden Gardens, boat ride on the river, book-fair at the Maidan, circus at Park Circus, rowing in the Lake, books in college street, infusion at the coffee house, double-decker bus and trams. The sound of the conch-shell at dusk and women lighting diyas.

Inspite of the non-stop blaring of horns, incessant traffic that knows no rules, roads full of potholes, throngs of people that spill over into the streets, badly damaged sidewalks crowded by stalls, decaying rubbish piling high, homeless people in makeshift shelters, poverty and pollution, it is still home. These are still things we identify with, talk about and remember with some affection. We talk about Jyoti-babu and how communism has ruined the potential of Bengal for such a long time. We talk about Lalu and his regime in Bihar. We feel pride at all the technology and global advancement that India has made in the last decade. We seek out each other in lands far away from home. To talk. To bond. To feel at home.

Because our roots are still embedded over there.

That is where home is.