Amma's Anniversary

Tomorrow is that dreaded day when exactly one year ago, we woke up to a new ugly reality. A day when literally in a few minutes, a seismic shift altered our lives forever.

It was today, 25th May, that Amma shared her last living moments with all of us. These last few days, my chitti's (mother’s younger sister) my periamma (mom’s older sister), Appa and I – all of us who beheld Amma those last few days and hours have spent reliving her last few moments: This day last year. What were we doing? ‘This moment, were we not returning from the temple trip?’ ‘She said that, didn’t she?’ ‘We ate that yummy curd rice you had packed’ ‘Why did she agree to return when you asked her to?’ The questions without answers, the moments etched in stone, the sorrow, the regret, - all of it lived dozens of times through the year in over a dozen hearts and minds, back to haunt us again today, and maybe again this day next year, and the year after…

Death is so matter of fact – everything born must die – nobody prepares you for how it shapes you when a loved one dies. This is one area we have no training in. There are classes on how to give birth, how to feed your baby, how to parent, how to deal with your child, how to manage your spouse, how to this, how to that. But nobody trains you on how to deal with life after the death of a loved one. What should you do when you see your rock, your father, break down and cry like a baby? How do you decide who gets your mother’s most prized possessions? The little décor items she picked out with so much love – invaluable to her, but worthless to someone else? Do you throw or keep her chappals she left behind in your house? Her store of sarees – who do you give them to? How do you handle your own helplessness, when you see your surviving parent wrapped in loneliness? Most of all, nobody prepares you for the seismic shift in your own mind, in your priorities, in how you suddenly view your own life and your choices. Nobody tells you that your journey from being a child to becoming the adult is now finally complete, and that, now, in many ways, your generation has reached the front of the queue.

When blood supply to a part of our body gets blocked, a web of other smaller blood vessels emerges to take its place. That web of love is what we are slowly learning to build: new connections forged over old relationships, old connections reimagined, strengthened, to fill the giant void left by that queen-sized one.: Father to daughter, brother to sister, Aunt to niece, brother in law – sister in law. Sister to sister. Daughter-in law – father –in law, granddaughter to grandfather. All connections to help us heal, to cope, to carry on, to somehow move on.

This last year has also been a series of firsts: the first time your dad cooked you a meal for many days in a row, the first time you cooked him one many days in a row. The first time your dad fought with the maid, the first time you helped your dad manage their home. The first birthday you didn’t get a call from her first thing in the morning, the first new year you brought in without wishing her at midnight. The first year your dad celebrated his wedding anniversary alone, the first year your aunt didn’t get a saree on her special day. The first time ma didn’t make gajar halwa on your brother’s birthday, the first Diwali she didn’t make your favorite ‘omapudi’ The first time you didn’t instantly know when something had happened in the extended family, the first time you attended a family function on her behalf. That f first time you picked up the phone to call her, but then cut the call, that first time you cooked her signature dish without calling her first. And with each first, you learning, accepting, that this is not a just another horrible dream you will eventually wake up from.

They say Time heals, and heal it has, even if it should be doing a better job. How much longer for the ache to vanish, Time? It’s been a year, a year already. And somehow her looming absence, rankles still.

Flying Kisses, Flying Time

It started innocently enough..and like most rituals, I can’t put a date to it. She was a tiny kiddy then, by comparison. We played catching the flying kiss at home from time to time..I would blow her a kiss and she would run around the house trying to catch it. She would blow me one..and show fake horror and exclaim that it was stuck on the door , or had fallen on ground..or some such thing, and I would need to retrieve it and tuck it away carefully..She would respond with the brightest giggle and a twinkle in her eye. 
I don’t know when, but we started exchanging flying kisses after she got on the school bus every morning. She would hold my hand at the school bus stop and her height, barely to my chest. She would run in to the bus, to her favorite seat : the 2nd last row corner window seat, and she would turn around and look at me and as the bus started to leave..I would blow her a kiss. She would catch it and then she would blow me one and I would catch it. She will throw me her brightest smile. 
Slowly the years have rolled by..she has grown taller, bigger, wiser. She is almost my height now and she says big things ., and writes about success and patience, and pain, and awkwardness..Words too wise for a soon to be 13 year old. Is her childhood all gone I wonder.. is she all adult now ? But then our childhood ritual of blowing kisses remains - for now..Yesterday, for the first time in a very very long time, she was distracted in the bus..She turned back well after it had left and I don’t know if my kiss reached her or got stuck on the bus somewhere...and it felt strange. I know the tables are turning when I caught myself telling her today ‘Remember to see here today’. I blew her that kiss and she blew one back. ‘She is my baby still’ my heart danced..’ 
How much longer...Time will tell

No Shopping Pledge

Amma’s story ended midsentence. A life in motion, that was being lived, that had every intent to continue living. Her beautiful Indira Broker tussar silk saree-laid out to be worn in the morning, lying on the chair by her bedside. A new Ikat saree I had gifted her the previous day, tucked away in the cupboard. Her accounts notebook, updated till the last penny spent , with a pen inside, waiting hopefully to be used the next day. Her dentures lying in water waiting for her to pick them up the next morning. Death is often like that, I now intimately recognize. It doesn’t wait for you to finish your story. For you to say ‘Now I am ready’. 

After all the ceremonies ended, I spent the better part of the next 10 days, sorting through stuff in Amma and Appa’s home. Stuff, that Amma collected over the years, and preserved, but stuff that to Appa or to any of us, without Amma, is worthless. There were little fruit forks that I remember taking out of Amma’s crockery cupboard and playing with as 3-4-year-old. Forks, I have never seen used by Amma, intact still mostly, still awaiting their turn. Kept away carefully..just in case.. 3 orange melamine cups that used to belong to a larger family of dinnerware. Not used in 3 decades at least, but kept, just in case. A gas lighter, that stopped working a few years ago, but preserved because – maybe it could be cleaned and made to work? Another, barely working, but kept in use anyway. That large kadhai, used once a year when Amma made pickles at home. A shelf full of pickles of different vintages, made lovingly for her children, her sisters, her friends. Tuar Dal, Imli, Gud, Whole Red Chillis - bought for the year and kept in large tins. Those lamps we picked up together at Fab India when I used to be in college in Bangalore over 20 years ago ; lamps that stopped working many eons ago, but Amma held on to..just in case…Religious prayer books by the dozen- in Tamil, Malyalam, Sanskrit- Popular prayers and the Neglected ones. With detailed meanings and without. A travel copy– light to carry- and an at home copy, and that 3rd copy..just in case.. Glassware – intact pieces, and chipped ones too. In sets complete and some incomplete one too. Crockery - Odd ball singletons, couples, and whole extended families. Steel utensils she cooked every day in for 50 years, and steel utensils that lay unused in cartons. Shelves filled with dozens of décor objects – both beautiful and banal - that little doll she bought in the dollar store in US, that damaged Devi (goddess) statue, she wouldn’t throw away.. Ganesha statutes in myriad materials, shapes and sizes. Plastic Ziploc bags collected over the years- enough to need a travel bag to store them in. Plastic bags and shopping bags, collected and stored, for re-use someday. Giftwraps, painstakingly removed from received gifts, folded and kept…just in case. Gifts to be given- a cupboard full of them. I didn’t have the courage to sort through her personal possessions just yet. Her over 200 sarees- over a dozen brand new- bought or received as gifts. Some still in their original plastic covers. Some – with their ‘fall’ stitched, some with their blouses newly stitched too- all waiting patiently for their turn to be worn. Her few dozen bags and purses – the little change purse where she kept coins to the large travel purse she bought in Bangkok’s China Town. Stuff, stuff, so much stuff..Stuff that was left for me to organize, keep, give away or throw away. Every single piece worthless without her to enjoy them now.. 

Amma, compared to me, was frugal, careful, actually. I am a shopaholic in comparison. I know I speak for my generation, my peer group when I say that we all spend so much of our lives collecting, cherishing valuing physical, possessions. We all own more than we need, much more than we can meaningfully use, and often more than we even want. We run around like headless chickens, so we can earn more to buy even more. Entire global economies run on the premise that people need and want more stuff. We have somehow built an insatiable desire to own more and more. And the price we pay – our health, our peace of mind, our relationships, just so we can work harder to earn more, just so we can own even more stuff. Most of it, pointless, worthless. Where does it all stop, I wonder. Everything we own, will become orphaned, useless, in literally an instant one day. And somebody else will be left with the job of sorting thru it all - wondering how to dispose it all off. Wouldn’t we be better off, if we started to be mindful about what we own and how much we own ? If we started to think before we bought that thousandth outfit, or 50th shoe – do I really need this ? If we start to part with things we don’t really use anymore – even if we are attached to them - and as we go along, learn to make do with less and less ? 

I am struck by the wisdom of our ancestors- about living a full life for 25 years – Grihastashram’ so to say – and then transition to ‘Vanaprathashram’ – simpler living so to speak. Is it within me to actually start doing this ? I don’t really know yet. But as start, I have pledged not to buy anything that I can’t immediately consume or don’t absolutely need, till Amma’s first anniversary. I already own too much
Nothing inessential or superfluous is my promise. No new clothes (with some essential exemptions), no funky jewellery, no bags, no fancy footwear unless the current ones are completely worn out, not one more piece of home décor, crockery, or glassware or cookware. No physical books either. A kindle maybe – so I can read without buying books, but no physical books for sure. This might be a small step towards owning less, but for somebody like me who derives joy in shopping, a very tough one. All the best to me. Wish me good luck.

21 Jun 2018, 12:08

Stealing your Mom's clothes

My 12 year old daughter started stealing my night dresses a couple of years ago.She raids my cupboard and steals one every night, drowning herself in long oversized flowy cotton night gowns. 'These are so big for you', baby' I still say. 'I like them like this' She insists. She even steals the ones that are beginning to tear. Especially those ones. 'These are sooo soft' She says. I've now bought extra. Free Sized cotton night dresses that both a 12 year old and a 42 year old can fit into. I can stock hers in her cupboard. But she prefers the pleasure of raiding mine. There is an unspoken joy in wearing your Mama's clothes for a little girl, I guess. She is trying to grow up, I guess. 'Mama, I am so big, I can share your clothes' she seems to say. 

Like Trayi, I used to wear Amma's night dresses many many years ago. Raided from her cupboard. Amma's were always floral prints, in mixed synthetic with a little lace. 
Over the years, I discovered the shops in Elco market, Bandra, and moved to block printed, kaftan styled, pure cotton night dresses. I updated my style, I grew up. 
Each time I visited Amma, she would offer, - nah, Amma never offered - insist actually, that I wear hers. 'Why do you bring so many night dresses. Use mine.' She would always insist. 
'Become my little girl again', Maybe she was imploring ?

I didnt tell Amma ,but secretly, I didnt quite dig her nightgowns anymore. I would use them once every now and then, but usually, I just stuck to mine. 'I am my own person now. My taste is not like yours anymore'. Maybe I was trying to say...
The night after Amma died, I raided her cupboard and stole all her nightgowns. I wear them every single night now. 

Isnt there vast unexplainable joy in wearing your Amma's clothes ?

Memories

We live on a treadmill of time, constantly running past our present and leaving strewn behind, as markers of our journey, memories. 
Memories : painted in the canvas of our mind with broad brushstrokes of emotion : joyous, repulsive, anxious, hateful, loving. The details, lost to the sieves of age, or saved by them. Innocuous minutae – the color of a dress, the look in a loved one’s eye, the design of fabric on a couch, the ringing of laughter in a friend’s voice – saved for no reason sometimes, and other times because they meant so much. Other stories blanked out because they meant very little, or sometimes, because they hurt too much. Some memories, expanding in the aftermath, because of how often we choose to shower them with attention. Others fading, as we diminish their value. All of them, colored forever, by the lens we choose to view them with. Lenses, chosen unwittingly perhaps, sometimes deliberately, but chosen nonetheless. Lenses, that become hard to alter, once chosen. 

Memories, are the building blocks to our evolving selfhood, shaping us constantly. Each event, leaving its mark, in how we think, what we value, who we value, who we discard. They are the cement in our relationships-bonding us forever with those that we share fond memories with- however fleeting. Laying invisible or maybe, discernible cracks in bonds that have left us with dour aftertaste. Memories are our bridges across time, allowing us to traverse decades in a fraction. To revisit bonds, to recreate events like they occurred yesterday. We are little else, but a collection, a treasure trove, an edifice created by our memories. And the memories of those we touch in our journey. We act today, as our memories have shaped us to. And our actions in turn will shape the memories. 
This past week, I have been submerged in memories of a very joyful time from my adolescence. Old friends, lost to time, but now reunited because of our memories.

Home

I made a short trip back to my childhood and came back feeling young again. For a few precious days, I forgot my adulthood and become my parents' child again. And then, as I was leaving, it hit me that I was leaving behind two frail old children who were pretending to be big and strong. Just as I had pretended to be little and fragile. Our roles have reversed now. I am the adult and they are the ones that need care. And yet we both continued to pretend that they were strong and I was small. Because playing that game , letting them take care of me, made them and me both feel young again. Love you lots amma and appa.

#Home

Home' is sometimes, a country, a city, a locality, a house, a room. Favorite streets, familiar nooks igniting memories.Familiar flavors,wafting smells tingling the senses. Familiar sounds, familiar tongues that make us smile. Familiar faces, favourite people enveloping us with warmth. 'Home' can also be a just a bunch a things : your bed, your blanket, your plate, your coffee mug; the teddy you love to hug when nobody's watching, your torn shirt that you wear to bed each night, your comfort food made just so. Things you carry along when you move, or just when you go away for a few days - to make the alien more bearable. Most often though, home is people you love : your spouse or partner, your kids, your parents, your pet that runs to greet you when you arrive, your siblings maybe, that rare friend..People, whose presence makes any place home, and whose absence, robs home from every place. Above all, 'Home' is a feeling. A feeling that you belong, that you are loved, that you are missed. 'Home' is where your heart sings, home is where you are without your masks, home is where you go to hide when the world wounds you, home is where you replenish your self, when you feel depleted. Today morning, I woke up at 4.00, dressed up and left my home -my house, my city, my things, my family- and boarded a flight. I landed, took a cab and arrived home - to my mom and dad. Home, for some of us lucky ones, is many places, many things, many people, all igniting that familiar feeling 'I'm Home'. What is your home ?

40TH Birthday!

Forty, as per current trend, is the celebration of the half way mark of your life. If you are lucky, as I have been, you are , by the time you hit this milestone, mostly done with the job of growing up. Your insecurities lie in your past, as do your grudges, your confusion about your priorities, and your haziness about which relationships matter, or should. And what takes its place is a searing clarity about what really matters and who really matters, or should. Fortunate as I am about having discovered the ‘what’s’ of my life, I am even more fortunate to have been blessed with several ‘who’s’ that enrich my life. These are the people, who entered my life at various stages – in school, in undergrad, at IIM, at my various workplaces, in the various cities that I have lived in – Nasik, Bangalore,Bangkok, Pune – and then never left. They are the people who have chosen me and who I have chosen as a part of each other’s lives, not because we have a blood bond, but because we share something deeper – a soul connection, a deep friendship, a love that has seen and weathered several storms, and maybe an unconditional acceptance of each other, with all our flaws. When so many of these incredible, warm and generous people, whom I am lucky to call my friends, take the effort and the time – to come down from Bangalore, Delhi, Chennai , Bangkok, Pune, Mumbai, to prioritise my special day in their incredibly buzy lives, I feel humbled by their love. When my family – my husband, my aging inlaws, my daughter – do everything in their power to make me feel cherished, I feel nothing but gratitude to experience their selfless, tireless love. When colleagues at work put toegther a thoughtful special surprise, I feel surprised to deserve their care. And then there are the loved ones who, even as they are unable to be with me in person, make it a point to let me know I am in their thoughts – calling me, sending me video/audio messages, whatsapping me or sending me a personal note – gestures of love that let me know they care. Life, I know by now, is filled with searing highs, sweeping lows, and lots of blah days in between. The infinite big and small gestures of love I have experienced in the last three days – make these, by far the most cherished, memorable, days ever. These are indeed the best days of my life.

My 30 Day Facebook Fitness Challenge -Losses and Gains

It is Day 31, The Day after and I am forcing myself to take a break, even though I don't really feel the need for it.

 As I sip my morning coffee, I am trying to tabulate what I gained and lost in 30 days. I guess most people reading the 'fitness diaries' (a term borrowed from a friend) want to know what I lost - how many kilos, how many inches, etc. I didn't check the data because I fear I already know the answer.  But my daughter's observation on this topic should give you some indication.

On day 29, as I was doing a 360 degree check in front of the mirror, checking my bum, my rather large tum, and other body parts rather critically, I asked my daughter 'Tikku, don't you think I look much thinner now ? ' My daughter asked me 'Mummy, how much is one millimeter?' I told her. She confirmed "Yes Mamma, you are thinner by one millimeter!!!!" So any illusions I had about having made any significant dent to that massive frame were washed away that instant. :)

Another friend told me on the phone "When you expect your body to change in 30 days, remember, it did not get that way in 30 days!" Yes, that is true- it has taken 15-18 years of persistent effort to collect this body mass- to expect it all to vanish in 30 days is foolhardy, at best. I need another year of working out at this intensity for my body to start seeing some results. Can I sustain that, I don't know. Ask me when you meet me next.

But to those reading, if you are wondering if your body will be as stubborn and if the effort is worth it- let me console you : each body is different. I have a super low metabolic rate-which makes it all very hard.

To me personally, what I gained is much more valuable:

a. A sure knowledge that one hour of exercise a day, every day is doable. Yes, it takes some jugglery to make it happen, but it is feasible. There are days, when the jugglery is probably not worth doing, but certainly, on most days, it is viable, and worth doing as well. The last time I exercised with regularity – was 11 years ago: I used to do cardio 4 days a week for one year. I never got beyond 4 days a week, ever again. This was 7 days a week- so much harder to do.

b. My greatest personal objective was to check if making a commitment public would motivate me to do something, that, for sure, I would not follow through otherwise.  This is my biggest gain –knowing that making a public commitment works wonderfully for me. Not to worry, not all my public commitments will be on FB, though knowing that 300 people are watching sure works!!.

c. The stated goal when I started this was ‘get off a sedentary lifestyle’ i.e. willingness to incorporate other movements in my daily life as well. Well, certainly, the resistance for that has reduced- I don’t think so much about walking around the vicinity to get small odd jobs done. (How lazy was I ?!!) For several people, this must be anyways an obvious part of life, but in my case, it was not.  I also am willing to do many more tasks around my house -instead of outsourcing it - with less mental resistance. So certainly, this was a goal achieved- something has been gained here.

d. My other major  objective was to make exercise a habit : well I am not sure yet if it is a habit – but certainly, I know for sure that all the excuses my mind makes are just that – excuses.  I hope to be able to keep up with this – so next time you meet me, be sure to ask if I have succeeded or not.  I sure as hell hope I do.  

e. I had a few unintended benefits as well- the most significant one being a general feeling of wellbeing that one feels when one exercises. Although I am, in general,  a happy person, this has been a period of stress – I have recently moved back to India, and am battling the mundane everyday to get life rolling smoothly again. I have been unusually Zen when the gas connection takes forever to happen, or, when the workers takes 3 days to fix one faulty switch. And maybe even see it all with a touch of humor –thanks to the exercise induced serotonin coursing through my nerves.

f. Literature tells me that there are a multitude of other benefits that exercise endows, and it feels very very good to know that I wont be getting Alzheimer’s any time soon, or that my fat producing genes are on their way to being made impotent, or that my HDL will soon be shooting through the roof, and that, even if I don’t really lose any weight,  I certainly won’t be gaining any.

g. The other unintended benefit is how I feel about my body –my self-image. The exterior may not have changed much, but  from the inside, I feel like Venus Williams (powerful, strong) and Kareena Kapoor (beautiful, slim) all rolled into one. So what if the exterior does not reflect that ? Scores of articles tell me, that what I ‘feel’ is what matters when it comes to self image. And on that front, thanks to exercise, I am all sorted.

h. The ripple effect on others was an unintended benefit as well : Many wrote to me saying my posts inspired them- if it did- awesome! And several others were obviously curious and intrigued by my very public personal experiment. If it provided a few with entertainment –  Maybe I have just created a brand new concept called the ‘FB Reality Shows’ ;). And I am sure there would have been the polite few (or majority ! – who knows!!) who would have been pretty bored and irritated to see my updates turn up on their newsfeed each day : To them I say ‘Heave a sigh of relief- it’s all over now!!’

Why I am a Feminist

“Oh but you are a Feminist!” Somebody threw that at me the other day. Like a cold ball of ice, it was meant to deflect intelligent debate on an unconnected topic. It did however get me thinking. Unlike many, I do not flinch from using the word ‘Feminist’ to describe myself.

I distinctly remember my crossover –from keeping comfortable distance with a word of mostly negative connotations, to being a proud wearer of the badge. The transformation took a few minutes. 
I was young and impressionable, working at my first real job on a woman’s portal, over a decade ago.  I was surrounded by a gaggle of women – all loud, opinionated, funny and older than I. In between producing an online Indian Urban Chutnified version of Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping, Women’s Health and People, we occasionally put out relevant, interesting pieces. One such piece, written by a friend of one of my colleagues, was titled ‘Why I am Feminist’. It was a short article, made for the web-era of impatient surfers. I remember approaching it with the curiosity of a window-shopper – casually glancing through, with limited intent to buy (into) the idea. However, by the time I was done reading the article, I was sold. I was a Feminist. That much was clear. Whether I embraced ‘The Tag’ or not. Instead of tip-toeing around it, I chose to own it completely-warts and all.
Over time, I went back and read that article several times. Each time, it resonated with me. My colleagues also introduced me to some other feminist writing-much of it relevant, but very yawn worthy. I didn’t need any more conversion, anyway. Eventually, our young dot-com shut down, the gaggle disbanded, and we each moved on with our lives. The web portal that we had put together with love and sweat was brought down the internet and its contents thrown into oblivion. When I started writing this piece, I tried, once again to find the article that transformed me. Unfortunately, except for its’ imprint on my mind, it had left no trace.

So I figured I should revisit my own notions again-after all, much has happened in my life since I was an impressionable 23 year old. I am married for a decade, no longer working full-time, mother to a kid and at 36-hardly impressionable - maybe the coat of feminism does not sit so well on me anymore?

I picked up the Oxford English Dictionary and that defines a feminist as "an advocate or supporter of the rights and equality of women".  

I read up a bit more on Wiki and the other pedia’s out there. Then I decided to pen my beliefs regarding myself, my daughter and all the women I know.

I believe that my daughter should get the same opportunities in life as my son (if I have one). I believe I deserve the same opportunities, choices and decisions as the men in my life.

I believe I am empowered to vote-to decide who will lead my city, my province, my nation.

I believe I have an equal stake in everything my family (parental or spouse) owns.

I believe that I deserve to be paid equal to my male counterpart if I do the same type of work.

I believe I have a right over my life choices. I believe I can choose my partner. I am not a symbol of my father’s, my community’s honor.

I believe I have a say when it comes to my body. I believe I have the right to stand up and say ‘no’ if I am violated physically or sexually.

I believe in a marriage of equals-that my spouse and I make all decisions that affect our lives together.

I believe all the women the world should have the same choices as I.

Am I still a Feminist? Oh yes! I absolutely am. A 100%. But I am hardly alone. My mother is one, and so is my dad. And my husband too. My daughter will be one too. And most women I know, and several men too. We are a large tribe out there. Even if we all dont wear The Tag. Even if we dont all know it. Because what we believe is basic to humanness. Basic to the wellbeing of not just women, but the men in their lives as well- and so, important for everybody. We believe that man and woman are different- but equal. And deserve to be treated as such. We believe that women are one half of the Universe and so should own Half the Sky, Half the Earth, and Half of the Universe. Maybe, you are a Feminist, too?

(‘Half the Sky’ is a Book –and a movement- by Nicholas Kristof and his wife Sheryl WuDunn. I have plagiarized the term in my blog)

(I have titled my Blog ‘Why I am a Feminist’ in memory of the article that changed me.)

Global Nomads

‘So where are you from’ ? A question that comes up ever so often.  The simple answer is to quote what your passport proclaims as your homeland. But, over time, especially, if you live away from your ancesteral roots, that reply rings hollow.

There are several like me in my current ‘temporary’ residence – global nomads- coming here between 2 landings…they are on their way to another land, just stopping here for a couple of years in the interim. And there are those that came straight from their homeland, but have stayed here way longer than they planned to.

Every place we live in-changes us a little. We begin to see the world a little differently, than when we did when we were back home. We are changed by the people we meet, the new festivals we learn to enjoy, the foods our palates begin to consider as familiar, the new lifestyles we adopt. We get comfortable with a hug and a kiss, as much as with a folded hand when we greet. We adapt what we wear, how we speak, how we think. We open our hearts and our minds to new experiences everyday, and slowly, but surely, we are no longer the same people we were when we left our homeland.

But we still cling on to pieces of our mangled confused roots. Try to pass on our (now subtly changed) values, celebrate our (not- so- traditional ) festivals, speak in our (not so fluent) language.  And so,we don’t quite belong to where we live either.  As our journey continues, no matter where we head to next, we are now homeless –and rootless- forever. For, now, we can never truly ‘belong’ anywhere with the completeness and the abandon of those that never left.