Home

My grandfather was a refugee. One morning, some sixty years ago, he had waken up to learn that his country wasn't his any more. His family was one of millions that became homeless during the chaos that ensued the partition of the former British India. Through years of struggle, he did re-establish himself in a land that was new to him. Starting from scratch, he got a job and earned a name for himself in his professional career, but the wounds of being severed from home were too deep to ever heal completely. He didn't dislike his later residences; in fact he loved them; but that special spot in his heart was always reserved for a place he was never able to return to. Never was he tired of narrating the same old stories of the hamlet where he grew up, of those coconut trees, those lakes and woods, and the people whose lives revolved around his own. That quaint little neighbourhood wasn't his country anymore, but it still was where his home was, and it was the place he wanted to go back to. Always.

It's hard to fix a definition for the word 'home'. Perhaps it suffices to say that it's the place one feels sad to leave and where one wants to go back to, again and again, from anywhere else. After a long journey, or after a day's work, or simply, when one feels like. To a person, it could mean an apartment, a house, a neighbourhood, or even a city; depending on her perspective. However, it's not a place or a house alone that makes a home. The sights, sounds, smells and perceptions that one associates with the place are also a part of it. It's not just another point on the earth's crust with a fixed longitude and latitude, but a place that emerges beyond its spatial existance onto a level where it can be connected to with feeling and nostalgia.

That is not to say that the spatial aspects or the building is insignificant. They have their own place. They constitute the skeleton; a foundation on which the other, less tangible entities weave enchanting patterns of memory. Each room in the house, in fact each spot in each room has its own special place. You remember the slippery floor where you slipped and fell when you were a kid, the flight of stairs where you had once overstepped, the dining room where the family would gather every night, the lawn chair on the balcony where you would sit and watch the birds and the passers-by; the cosy little corner in your room where you would log in to your first computer.

People, of course, are an integral part of it. The warmth that one associates with a home generally oozes from the people who stay, or have stayed in and around that place. Memories that we cherish and that often make us homesick, also are woven around the same people; people we love, people we feel a strong connection to, people we long to see again.

There are other aspects of it as well. Little things we seldom pay attention to show their worth by creating indelible impressions on the mind. These impressions reflect prominently when one's away. When I think of home, among other people and things, I also think of the random strangers who would walk across the street and whom one could watch from our balcony; stray cats that would wander about in the nighbourhood, street dogs that would whine in the middle of the night, crows that would meet for their daily congregation at our terrace every afternoon, and the tree next to my window that would burst into a revolution of red blossoms every spring. None of these seemed to be of any significant importance when they were around me, and yet, they probably were, for they had made their presence felt.

And then there are things I would do when at home, and that I miss when I'm away. Reading the local newspaper 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 are just some of them. Oddly enough, I even miss the frequent power-cuts at the peak of summer, the intense heat, the chaotic traffic and the noisy crowds. All of them combine to complete a collage that I call home. Some are a nuisance; but they are essential components nevertheless, for they too contribute to put all the colours to the image and to put all the notes to the sound.

All these things, parts of our memory: big , small, important, less important, tangible, abstract, intense, vague; come together to remind us of our home. And they call us to come back; luring us with glimpses of a familiar world.

However, while we find ourselves in a far away land, seperated by hundreds and thousands of miles from the domain of familiarity; at times we realize that home might not be as far as it seems. After all, it's the same blue sky, the same moon and stars, the same clouds, white and grey, and the same raindrops. People and objects are capable of creating a bond of a similar intensity, even if that's of a different kind. And then we realize that perhaps our home isn't limited to a fixed location. As we grow, and as we travel, our horizons expand, and our homes become larger. While for some of us, home remains a complex image from the past of a fixed place; for the rest, it changes. That doesn't mean that the earlier home loses its significance, it holds on to its special place eternally, but other places gradually are elevated to that level too.

Home, after all, is where we want to be; where we want to return to; and to which we could relate and connect to emotionally. It can be a single place, but it also can be more than one place if one feels equally at ease at all of them, and feels an equal sense of attachment to all of them. In a global society, where people often have to stay away from their original homes not because they were driven out by wars or partitions, but because they left deliberately to pursue career goals; it is natural to build a strong connection with the new surroundings. With time, the new place often grows on us. With all its little nuances that capture our perception, it, too, weaves a world of familiarity; and becomes our second home; not replacing the first by any means, but becoming as special.

An ode to my laptop

Technically this isn't an ode, it's just a reminiscence.

The person isn't dead. She is just in a coma.

It's been little more than a year. Not too long a period, one might say, to build a really intimate relationship, but it sure was sufficient for me and her. I had started loving her the moment I saw her enchanting figure for the first time. Her glamorous exteriors, her speed, her sleek looks and he mesmerizing sounds got me mystified in no time. And thus began a sweet relationship that I would cherish for the rest of my life.

Many a dark moment has been lightened up by her presence. Many a depressing evening has been cheered up by her existence. There are so many memories from the past one year that revolve around her. The movies that we watched , the songs that we sang, the codes that we ran, the papers that we read, the games that we played, the chats that we had with people, the voip calls that we made! The list is endless!

She was the cause of awe among friends. She was the cause of jealousy among enemies. And then, suddenly, one fateful evening, she just stopped. Her life, we found out, was on a halt. I went to the doctors here, but they charged fortunes to treat her. Why don't I get a new one instead, they suggested. How could I? How could I possibly throw her away? Throw away someone who has been so special to me in the last twelve months or so!

I'll get her treated properly.

She isn't dead. She's only in a coma.

Once she gets proper treatment she'll be up on her feet.

I'm sure!

New Year Resolutions!

Returning from an all-too-rosy India trip straight back into the frigid winter of Waterloo, and being quickly surrounded by icy winds, heaps of snow, dull and depressing skies, workaholic grad students and grumpy professors; I feel like having been rudely awakened from a pleasant dream into cold reality. This awakening, along with a realization that I have a lot of things to do, and very little time to procrastinate, motivates me to write this piece of junk.

For someone with a self-confessed notoriety for procrastination, January 14 is somewhat early to jot down New Year Resolutions. That, and my disregard for the necessity of having such resolutions in the beginning of a not-so-special cycle of 365 days, add to the reluctance of writing this post. However, I felt like writing something, and this seemed to be a good topic to write on.

So, what do I resolve to do? For one thing, I seriously need to cut down on procrastination. I need to reduce the time I spend on watching youtube videos, reading random articles on wikipedia, chatting online and participating in pointless discussions on orkut. I need to work seriously on my research so that I can graduate by the end of Fall at least, if not by the end of Summer. I also need to find time (which I definitely would once I cut down on all the pointless activties mentioned earlier) to do constructive stuff outside research: reading books, watching good movies, writing on a regular basis. And I would blog more frequently. Twice a month, at least.

I guess that's all. Well it turns out to be shorter than I expected. I'll add more later if I can think of anything else.

Perception of Indians

Many of my friends have often asked me about the general perception of India and her people in Canada. The following is an attempt to summarize the same.

I have lived in Canada for almost eight months now. I get to interact with people from many countries here; not just Canadians. In fact most of the people I meet are non-Canadians: and are of diverse ethnicities, that include Chinese, Arabs, Iranians, Indonesians, Europeans.

The general awareness about India and her culture isn't significant, which is somewhat understandable. For instance, people (except those from the sub-continent) find it strange that our country has so many different languages and find it rather hard to believe that not all people speak or understand a single language. They will ask if these are really different languages, or just dialects/ accents of the same language.

People are also not much cognizant of our cultural diversity. I had a heated argument with this guy from Kyrgyzstan who argued that Kazakhstan has more diversity than India. This guy was my office-mate and sat next to me. His point of view was that the diversity of India is only at a micro level, and not at a macro-level; and therefore it is perceptible only by Indians themselves; while to foreigners our culture seems quite homogeneous. He would talk about the caste system (which he thought was all-pervasive), and arranged marriages, and people who he thought looked very similar (and therefore were ethnically identical, according to him), and languages that sounded similar to him (he had heard us speak in both Bangla and Hindi). Of course he hadn't read much about India and his opinion was mostly based on a bunch of Bollywood Movies and a handful of Indians he had known. And he is the kind of person who turns a debate into a monologue; without letting anyone answer his points. I was initially somewhat irritated at his, should I say "arrogant ignorance", but then again, he can't be blamed either, because there apparently isn't a conscious effort on the part of those who promote India, to sufficiently emphasize our diversity to the outside world.

People, especially most Asians (Asians refer to all Asians here and not just East Asians; refer to a previous entry in this blog if you are wondering why this is clarified) do know about Bollywood and are interested in it, though they have this idea that all Bollywood movies have a dozen song sequences where the hero and the heroine sing and dance and go around trees. They also think that Indian movies don't expose women much, and a couple of Chinese guys had their jaws dropped when I showed them the "Beedi Jalaile" video on youtube. And that Tamil song where Prabhudeva dances (titled great Indian dance or something similar and available on youtube, with an astoundingly high view count) is very well known. The University actually offers a course on "Bollywood Dancing" alongside Salsa, Ballet, Tango and Mambo and it attracts several students of different national and ethnic origins.

There are some people who think that all Indians are born with Singing and dancing skills. Of course people don't know much about movies in regional languages or non-main stream Hindi movies. Most think "brown" girls are hot, which makes them wonder why Bollywood heroines are mostly of fair complexion. Some people also confuse the words "Hindi" and "Hindu". People know that Cricket is the most popular sports in India though their knowledge in this field is rather limited; though they believe that a single match necessarily played in five days.

Another misconception is that almost all Hindus (and all Brahmins) are vegetarians (I found this misconception even among some Pakistanis and Bangladeshis); and that beef is not available in India. "Indian Cuisine" (which is basically a selective combo of North and West Indian cuisine) is very popular and the Indian Restaurants attract a lot of customers. They also think that Indian food is excessively spicy, but they like that. "Chicken Tikka Masala", the national dish of Great Britain is popular here as well. My floormates gave me a strange look when they found me cooking lentils (Daal) in the common kitchen; they hadn't seen anything like that before. One Chinese guy asked if it was some curry.

Almost everyone has heard the name of "Calcutta", and instantly connect Mother Teresa (and probably abject poverty, though they won't say it) to it; though nobody knows the city's new name, "Kolkata", nor do I mention it, to avoid confusion. Some Europeans and central Asians pronounce it as "Kaal-Kootta" (which sounds like Kaalo kootta, meaning Black Dog in Bangla). Other well known cities are Delhi, Bombay (not Mumbai), and Bangalore. And they have heard of Taj Mahal. Well, at least most of them.

Despite a few misconceptions, most appreciate India as one of the earliest and greatest civilizations in the world, and our culture as one of the most outstanding. They also are aware of India' s recent economic boom and some consider her a superpower in the recent future. Most people like India and Indians and do not harness any negative feelings against us, barring may be, a few Pakistanis (though certainly not all of them, most of them are friendly and nice). Even in case of those Pakistanis, the grievance usually is against the Government of India and its Army, and not the common people.

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.

Asians?

Back in Pimary School they taught us that India is a part of that huge continent called Asia. I thereby had the impression that Indians are Asians. Seems kind of simple and direct doesn't it? India is a part of Asia; therefore all that is a part of India is a part of Asia; and thus follows the conclusion.

Having a notion like that, I emphatically and enthusiastically became a member of the "Asian Students Association" at the University when I found that there was one. But then when I checked out their website, something struck me as unusual. All the members of the community (except me) seemed to be of Chinese, Korean or Japanese descent. There was not a single member either from South Asia or from the Middle East; despite the presence of a significant number of students from these regions. I subsequently came to know that in these parts, "Asian" refers specifically to East Asians; it may or may not include South East Asians (it does not, according to my Chinese Canadian friend), but it definitely does not include South Asians like us.

This is what wikipedia has to say:

" In Canada, Asian refers to people from the Far East, Southeast Asia, South Asia and West Asia. Like the United States, in Canada the term Asian generally refers to the East Asian Canadians since they were the first Asian immigrant groups into Canada."

So as far as regular, unofficial use of the term is concerned, the more Chinese (or Mongoloid) features you have, the more Asian you are. But what are we then? It turns out that the common word for describing all South Asians apparently is the rustic-sounding "Desi" or the rather racist "Brown". The word Brown though, is the most ridiculous word to refer to South Asians, and that's not only because of its racist tone. A lot of North Indians and Pakistanis are as fair-skinned as Europeans while some Indians are as dark as Africans. The word Desi is better, but it doesn't make much of a sense either, because it sounds sort of "uncool", and in Hindi it simply means "of or belonging to the country". South Asian, probably is the best phrase and makes perfect sense; but that brings us to something similar to where we begun; as we face the question, "Are South Asians not Asians?"

Rather confusing, isn' it?

Winter Morns

My days begin with frosty morns; so cheerless, grey and pale
Shaken by the frigid winds that loudly weep and wail
Whilst whistling past the hapless trees that tremble, throb and shiver
Like arrows sharp with needle points strung freshly from a quiver.

The sky looks down in pensive mood and casts its gloomy glance
On a land that is still half asleep and revel in some trance
Enchanted and enraptured by an ancient magic spell
The world sleeps softly underneath the misty morning shell

I see no colour as I trudge wearily on my way
But vast white patches all along with exceptions of grey
At times they glow in sunshine like piled up heaps of salt,
I plod across the emptiness, I have nowhere to halt.

The winter plays its frozen charm across the streets I pass,
Which smell of snow and feel like steel and meanly gleam like glass.
The horizon ahead of me lay concealed in soggy haze
And thus I take my lonely walk across the wintry days.