Yamuna sipped her chai as she
looked out adoringly at the bustling Indian city around her, contemplating life.
She contemplated the fluidity of the concept of time in her mind, the way it
felt like an eternity and a blur all at once. This was one of those moments in
life when life caught up with her for a second, and everything she’d been
through made sense for a second. She didn’t feel adrift anymore, because she
was finally claiming her life, taking control over what was rightfully hers.
After what felt like the exodus to her, she was finally at home, amongst all
that felt familiar to her.
She inhaled, taking in the smell
of her aromatic chai. It smelled familiar and warm. Unexpectedly, a tear rolls
down her cheek. ‘Where did that come from?’ she wondered. It was the
overwhelming relief of finally not having to put on a show of how she was
unlike this simple, saree-clad woman, sitting on her doorstep, sipping her
chai. Here, she didn’t have to think, or speak – she could just sit here,
taking in the sounds of all the people going about their lives around her, and just lose
herself in the aroma of the ginger and elaichi, wafting up from her cup of tea.
She had taken her time waking up
and getting dressed this morning, picking out a pretty saree that matched her
mood, and draping it with care, taking her time to make sure the creases were
perfect and that the saree cascaded around her in an artful cloud of pleats and
loose bits. She chose to wear a big, round pottu and a big mookuththi. She felt
deliciously rebellious doing it, even though no one else may think of it that
way. She had taken her time enjoying every little morsel of the gloriously
crispy dosa she had made for breakfast that day, enjoying the smell, texture
and the warmth of it and all that it meant to her. She had then made her chai
and had actually sat down to savour it, letting its warmth wash over her. Being so free felt strange to her, at the point where the drudgery had started to become her friend.
Tomorrow, she decided she would
start making the phone calls she wanted to make regarding her job search, but
today, she was just going to relish being here, in her saree, drinking chai,
and feeling beautiful and proud. She looked at all the people around her who
looked like her, and watched as the aunty who lived next door came out to buy
vegetables from the vegetable hawker. Aunty was a bit surprised to see her in a
saree, so she made a gesture at Yamuna, which meant she was mighty impressed, and
Yamuna smiled back at her happily.
Oh the joy – she finally didn’t
have to protect her precious India from unfriendly strangers, who were only too
ready to turn up their noses at it. She was finally allowed to feel unabashedly
proud of all the wonders of her home. She could finally embrace the music, the
dance and the way India lived and moved and breathed all around her, like a warm,
comforting mother. The world felt like a safer, simpler and a far more
meaningful place, all at once.
She could take her time to choose
what she wanted to do with her life. No one was going to question her presence
or kick her out if she took too long to do anything. She didn’t have to explain
herself to anyone. They just understood. What a relief.
She would never discourage anyone
who thought about going overseas, but the reality is, unlike most people,
Yamuna had always had a sense of exactly what she wanted out of life. Her
choices were often unconventional because she unapologetically followed her
heart. It didn’t matter to her if people didn’t understand why she did the
things she chose to do. In fact, she enjoyed proving people wrong when they
handed her the doom and gloom about why her choices would lead to her
“failure”. She listened attentively when people who meant well gave her sound advice,
but never let anyone make her decisions for her because most people didn’t
quite “get” her.
It was due to a decision someone
else made that she had left her beloved India some years ago in tears, very
apprehensive of the first world, which was sold to her with such fervour. See, to
a lot of people, money mattered far more than soul. For those people, the
sacrifices they make don’t matter because they live for the moments when their
clueless families back at home would celebrate the image of opulence and the unsophisticated,
fake accent they toss around when they visit. They always make a show of how
they are slumming it, with their family, and the family lap it all up readily,
forgetting their self-respect in the mind-fog that resulted from the gifts they
were given.
Yamuna wasn’t really the
self-righteous type, but she always scoffed at pretentiousness. No matter whom
it came from.
Anyway, the realities of the
first world hit her slowly. She went in wanting to love it, hoping that all she
heard from everyone was true. At first, she absolutely loved being able to
express herself freely. People understood the nuances of the English she used.
She could use flowery language, embellish a little, be witty, and her jokes
landed. People enjoyed having conversations with her as much as she was beginning
to enjoy indulging them with all her stories.
She always loved beginnings,
because there were no expectations from anyone, just conversation that flowed
freely. She spent some time getting to know the people, learning their ways,
and politely answering their probing, and sometimes (frankly!) moronic
questions about India.
At first, she sympathised a
little – they truly had no idea, which is why they sounded so…curious. However,
as she became more familiar with the social cues of this new culture, she
started realising that it wasn’t healthy curiosity, but a veiled attempt to get
her to criticise her darling India, and say that this new country was the best
in the world.
She spent some more time there,
trying to fit in, telling herself not to be so judgy. She baked cakes for
birthdays and anniversaries and contributed to potlucks. She organised parties
and events, and really participated, hoping that that would help her get into
the spirit of things. She also showed up to the many, many social events that
she never seemed to be able to escape. She endured the culture that seemed to
always revolve around sports, drinking and whinging. She tried her best to be
sympathetic when the onslaught of first world problems came. Oh, and when they came, it felt like they
came in buckets – no, actually, more like a freakin’ deluge. In the first
world, she hated being a woman because the women were having baby showers
and bridal showers and all manners of exaggerated sleepovers, with penis-shaped
straws when those kinds of things frankly drove her up a wall.
Her idea of womanhood was so
different from trying to act like the lost boys…only, girls, in this case. She
embraced adulthood the moment she had the chance to act like one. She would
never, ever want to do anything child-like. Children didn’t get to wear
gorgeous sarees and make decisions for themselves. Children were pretty much
the same as drunk adults, and she knew she’d had enough of that for a lifetime!
She didn’t want them, and she didn’t wanna be them. Gross.
Regarding her opinion of the
first world, it was only a matter of time – the initial wonder she felt bubbled away, turning into tolerance, and tolerance very, very quickly morphed into judgement and
resentment. Trainwrecks were celebrated, and intellectuals were non-existent or
snooty. Either way, the feeling was akin to her trying to get comfortable in a
bed or a chair, but always feeling like something was off. Either a spring
would dig into her side or the fabric would make her slip off. However much she
tossed, and turned and shifted, there was no comfortable position she could get
into. She liked the people, they were alright, but in all her friendships, there was a glaring
absence of interconnectedness and genuinity.
She took the last sip of chai and sighed deeply. She had never thought she could grow to despise the stiff upper-lipped, British notion of civility as much as she did now. She realised that she had been right all along.
To put it in Passenger’s words – “Only hate the road when you’re missing home.”
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