India

Seven months ago, when I was in India and was preparing myself for a new life at the other side of the planet, I was somewhat vaguely aware of the things that I would be missing. I was certain that I would miss the company of my family and friends, the people with whom I used to spend the most of my time. I knew I would miss Bengali food: the daily dose of daal-bhaat-torkari-maachher jhol and the mouth watering sweetmeats of my land, not to mention the amazing street food delicacies of my city. I did realize that I would also miss, among other things, reading the Bengali daily in the morning while relishing a cup of the most refreshing tea, or taking those exciting auto-rickshaw rides across the city through peak traffic; or getting drenched in the monsoon downpours when umbrellas just don’t work; or jostling with sweaty crowds on a packed up minibus; or getting enchanted by the mystifying glow of the setting sun on a rain-soaked evening.

And I am missing all of those that I speculated.

But in addition to all that, I am missing something more. Something which includes everything else previously mentioned; but of which all that merely constitute a small part. Something I was probably too naïve to realize while in India.

I am missing India. I am missing her sounds, her sights, her touch. I am missing her divine smile reflected on a billion faces. I am missing the caressing touch of her refreshing winds. I am missing the fragrance of her flowers. I am missing the soothing smell of her soil.

I was of the opinion that nationality is just an artificial identity of an individual.

Now I know that it isn’t; at least for me. The love for my country is something that lives and breathes in every drop of blood that is pumped from my heart. The urge to see her emanates from the very core of my soul.

I always knew that I loved her.

I never knew that I loved her so much.