A Tale of Two Homes

It’s that time of year again.

As the summer sun casts its golden glow over Dubai, my heart has begun to yearn for the distant monsoon-laden skies of my beloved home, Calcutta. Having spent fifteen years in Dubai, my vibrant desert city, I have grown to appreciate its grandeur and cosmopolitan charm. Yet, there remains an indescribable longing that draws me back to the city of my roots, where memories intertwine with rain-soaked streets and the nostalgia and familiar comforts of home.

Dubai, continues to captivate my heart and imagination. The city thrives on the relentless pulse of ambition, each day bustling with a mosaic of cultures and dreams. A symphony of languages fills the air, blending seamlessly with the rhythmic hum of motor vehicles and the occasional calls to prayer. In Dubai, life is a fusion of the past and future, a glittering tapestry woven with dreams and aspirations.

Yet, as the summer holidays beckon, my thoughts drift across the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea to Calcutta, where, as I type this, the monsoon is transforming the landscape into a canvas of verdant hues and swirling mists. The raindrops, breathe life into the earth, unveiling a mystical beauty amidst the sense of decay, that only the rains can evoke. In Calcutta, history permeates every corner, leaving a mark on the city’s spirit. Narrow lanes wind through neighborhoods, revealing crumbling colonial buildings adorned with intricate ironwork balconies. The aroma of street food wafts through the air, mingling with the heady scent of damp earth. The Howrah Bridge, a behemoth of steel, stands proudly, connecting the pulse of the city across the mighty Ganges.

Despite its many drawbacks, I find solace and simplicity at home, in the warmth of family and the familiarity of tradition. The monsoon becomes a symphony of emotions, streets come alive with children splashing in rain-filled puddles, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleyways up to my room on the fourth floor. In the streets, sarees drenched in rainwater create a vibrant kaleidoscope of colors, reflecting the resilience and beauty of the city’s people.

As I prepare to embark on another summer journey back to Kolkata, I am torn between two homes, two worlds that have shaped me in unique ways. Dubai, with its modernity and ambition, offers endless opportunities for growth and adventure. Kolkata, with its nostalgic charm and monsoon-drenched soul, reminds me of the simplicity and profound beauty of life. I hate leaving Dubai, and when the time comes, I will hate to leave Calcutta too.

In this clash of cultures and landscapes, I find myself suspended, belonging to both cities yet truly belonging to neither. It is in this liminal space that I discover the true essence of my identity—a confluence of two homes, two cities that will forever resonate within my being.

In a few days, my plane will soar above the desert dunes, I will close my eyes and savor the anticipation of Kolkata’s embrace and in this interplay of memories and aspirations, I find solace. For I carry within me the spirit of two homes, forever intertwined like the threads of a vibrant tapestry.

Growing up Anglo-Indian

Growing up Anglo-Indian, I always found it difficult to explain to friends why my mother tongue was not Hindi or Bengali.

‘’How can it be English?’’ They would ask incredulously. 

‘’It is’’, I would try to explain. ‘’I’m Anglo Indian’’.

“So you’re one of those half-castes?”

Not quite sure how to respond to their genuine questions that were often laced with deeply-ingrained prejudices and derogatory connotations, I would mumble something about being Anglo-Indian, and how I experienced life.

The history books record how most Anglo-Indian’s left India when the country gained independence. They probably identified more with the British, and so fled to other commonwealth nations. I understand that the Anglo’s were “anglicised” so to speak, and although they must have had positive relationships with everyone around them, there may have been such distinct cultural differences that it set them securely apart. It seems like over time, the community cherry picked the British and Indian ingredients it wanted and created its own cultural recipe. One that I inhertited from my parents and grandparents.

On reflection, I can see that cherry picking is a habit I have inherited too. I suppose that being raised by a parents who identified with a certain culture means that it has been passed down, and I have also plucked out, experiences, foods and stories that have kept the Anglo-Indian-ness alive within me. But my parents also ensured I had a very cosmopolitan childhood. None of my closest friends were from the community, we rarely attended those big parties and Christmas-eve events, I have never been to the Bow Barracks, I don’t jive, my taste in food is multicultural, I am a die-hard Bollywood fan, I scored a 92% in ICSE Hindi as opposed to 78% in English, and I have no distinct affinity for anything particularly Anglo, other than food.

So, am I just all Indian? Am I a heady mix of two cultures? How Anglo am I really? More importantly, does it matter? There are many who preserve the culture fiercely, I am not one of them. Many desperately hope that some day, they will be able to articulate the label they identify with. Again, I am not one of those people. Being Anglo hasn’t led to me having particularly better opportunities, support or guidance from the community. It’s not a badge of honour I wear on my lapel, and I understand that’s not a popular opinion to have. Growing up Anglo Indian was to actually grow up surrounded by questions about my identity, it was about being pricked by stereotypes regularly, and being judged for a perceived lack of aspirations and personal growth, none of which I enjoyed and actually worked so hard to shed.

This morning I listened intently to Barry O’Brien’s message to the community on the occasion of World Anglo Indian Day. O’Brien is articulate and has that deep baritone I enjoy listening to whenever he speaks. However, I couldn’t help but reflect on how his message was predominantly about the community’s history, heritage, it’s glorious heyday and even though there was an emotional appeal to adults to look after the youth, there was no mention of concrete plans to actually invest in the lives of younger Anglo-Indians who can make a difference to the community. To be fair to him, how much can you outline in eight minutes anyway?

Our leaders however, still quote successes like Englebert Humperdinck, Ben Kingsley, Freddy Mercury and Sir Cliff Richards as our own. But the list of icons ends there. The success stories don’t overflow into contemporary history. Despite a generous spattering of Whitney Houston lyrics, clichés and platitudes in O’Brien’s speechthis morning, there was no actual strategy or action plan outlined to preserve the culture or support younger members in achieving a better tomorrow not just for themselves, but for the community at large. Actually, there has never been any strategy and it doesn’t seem like there is one today when our national leaders have arbitrarily removed our representatives from the Lok Sabha citing horrendously inaccurate statistics from a census taken years ago. Then again, what exactly did our representatives do for us while they held those esteemed positions? There isn’t even an accurate and updated register for how many of us exist. How did they know who they were representing?

I suppose that’s why I struggle with feeling a deeper sense of belonging than I currently have. My community, has lived on its laurels for as long as I can remember. Its leaders have perpetuated the success stories of the past and glorified its legacy in the fields of medicine, education, and engineering. But the pride ends there, we’re so firmly rooted in our history that we forgot to think of and plan for the future. Today, Anglo Indian teachers and principals in our schools do little or nothing to nurture the young or support their dreams and goals and most of our initiatives lack the research or intellect that can provide the catalyst to preserve and cultivate the identity of a peripheral group in the way others have effectively done across the world.

I’m a fourth generation Anglo-Indian, and honestly I believe that our community is so well integrated into Indian culture now that very negligible borders or constraints exist. Perhaps the only difference one notices is when people hear my name for the first time, or when they comment on the quality of my spoken English.

India is a land of opportunity for those who can set aside petty communal issues, work hard and innovate despite the many challenges. The same goes for all Anglos today. We are so much more Indian and so much less Anglo, than we ever were before. As long as there is no concerted effort to rally the troops, device a stratagem, invest in people and work with a singular and progressive focus, the community will continue to disintegrate, and its numbers and unique culture will fray at the edges till a wonderful fabric is unrecognizable patchwork.

The youth are indeed the future of the community like O’Brien rightly reminded us this morning, but I wonder what our leaders are actually doing to equip, empower and inspire them to make a tangible difference in the years to come. 

This Day, That Year ❤

1st July, 2017

We have left Paris behind us and have now crossed over into Germany. Ahead of us the Black Forest region of Triberg beckons and I still can’t believe I’m here.

Travel allows for sitting meditation. The mind luxuriates in the kind of tranquility that only an open road can bring. The soul too finds its opportunity to breathe. It inhales deeply and exhales slowly as it releases months, sometimes years of bottled feelings. Some, just simple emotions, others complex, with jagged edges.

As the countryside swooshes by in swirls of green the mind relaxes. There are no thoughts today, no worries, no plans, no tasks to be completed, no words to be spoken, nothing. Clear. Like the highway itself. There’s only a sense of profound appreciation for the moment.

It’s a funny paradox, every minute advances you further towards journey’s end and yet, the feeling is that of calm and stillness. Almost like an out of body experience, the real you floats above in the ether watching the physical you make your way from point to point on a map, stopping intermittently for little bursts of reality before you retreat again.

I wonder why we need a periodic escape to feel alive like this. Why does it take a visa to a strange city or verdant wilderness to rediscover sides of you that you don’t see enough. Why does one feel more at home exploring far flung places, than when at home itself?

The company of friends though valuable sometimes pales in comparison to the company of strangers. There are no expectations here, no masks, just you, enjoying the intimacy of a fleeting moment shared. It’s kind of incredible how potent an encounter can be. Words spoken, experiences shared, all of them live on with you. Like keepsakes they remind you of something special, you feel alive again, you imagine that moment over and sometimes you break out into smile. When you least expect it, the sounds of a familiar tune or the mention of a city will brighten up your day.

Everything you experience becomes a part of who you are. Like a patchwork quilt you begin to add bits and pieces till you’re left with a fabric of mismatched colors. There’s no uniform patter in the stitches, it looks ragged and lacking the finesse that comes from the hands of an expert. But the stitches are special to you, each one carefully done, holding together the myriad memories. There is love in every detail, special nuances that only catch your eye.

You think your patchwork is a thing of beauty, so you display it proudly like a fine tapestry. While everyone else examines, and speculates and conjectures, you listen, amused. You chuckle sometimes, you smile even when a random comment touches a nerve. You know what the quilt represents. Only you know.

Travel experiences are beautiful, spiritual even, they entertain, nourish and heal. Plans are great, but sometimes not knowing can be exhilarating too. You miss the ones you love but you carry them with you wherever you go. Home, afterall is no longer a physical space. Home is a feeling.

When you travel you leave parts of you in all the places you go but you carry with you so much more than you realize. All of it becomes part of who you are, it stays with you and suddenly everywhere begins to feel like home.