A Home of My Own

Source of the Image: Pretty much everywhere on the WWW.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Some pictures are worth millions. And so, the worth of a picture article consisting of those pictures is, well, incalculable. Enter this cnn.com article that was sitting in my email inbox today.

I looked at the title and mentally went, Oh, here we go again! Another ridiculous article talking about the spirit of Mumbai in the face of adversity, or something of that sort. I should have known better, considering it had been recommended to me by my very adventurous and sensible uncle, Plum. The article takes you on a rich sensory cruise (or, as they say, Mumbai-darshan) of "non-touristy" things that locals in Bombay experience (or can choose to experience) all the time. It suddenly took me back to eight years (and more) ago, sweeping right from the imposing and now slightly worn-out grandeur of the VT station to an unassuming vada-pav from the little corner shop with the strange (although not uncommon in Bombay) olfactory combination of somewhat stale oil and spices.

As I read the article, I found myself thinking of all those experiences I'd had, remembering the streets and locations they talk about - each associated with a memory, reminiscing about the life I'd led prior to this one. I evoked a particularly strong response to the Parsi Dairy Farm kulfi (I thought about it just a few weeks ago), a regular summer treat for us children. Mummy used to get the vendor to cut one circle into mini-pieces especially for us babies (me and the Piglett). Trying to keep our appetite (or ardor) in check, Mummy had told us she'd heard that they put blotting-paper in the kulfi. I used to wonder how they did that so you never felt it, but it never interfered with my enjoyment of that rich, sweet, milky, cold (mmmmm) ice-cream. I'm old enough to worry more actively about my health now than I used to twenty years ago, but I still would eat that kulfi in a Bombay minute, blotting-paper (and saturated fat) present or not!

Years have passed since I've "lived" at home and, in those years, I've acquired the (profoundly embarassing and somewhat depressing) distinction of being an "American", a "tourist" that falls ill as soon as she touches Bombay soil, has acquired a mosquito-allergy and a severe intolerance to heat, and needs to be kept in a glass bubble for the duration of her three-week stay in her hometown. I'd love to chuck precaution and do what I always did earlier, but in the interest of not taking sick leave immediately after my vacations home, I've allowed myself to live in the bubble, only stepping out occasionally when the 'risk' is 'small'. In doing that, I now realize that I have, unfortunately, alienated my city somewhat.

In the last few years since the big move to the US, I (and a lot of others in my category) have tried to look for a 'home' in this country. We reason that we need a place to go to, a place that affords us shelter and emotional stability, a place where we feel comfortable even under duress. I've moved twice: once to Maryland, and then to Chicago. Through Fi, I've seen several proxy-moves in the last few years too: his move from Maryland to NYC for the MBA, and then, recently, to Boston. Between the two of us, we've also seen many changes in the last few years - most of them positive. We've earned an MBA, published a paper in a leading journal, worked for two Fortune 100 companies, given a wonderfully well-received talk at the largest international conference in the field of radiology, published several peer-reviewed conference publications, met 'the parents' and received their approval, accomplished a major geographical move in the East Coast and an equally large emotional one in the Midwest, and fulfilled one 'final' academic ambition (with the other finally seen as a glimmer on the horizon). Through all these changes, we've looked for a place we can call 'home', a place we feel at home. Partly in quest of that, we've vacationed at places we're interested in, trying to feel a connection. Southern California? No. Vegas? Never! Hawaii? Not unless we plan to change careers and switch to art or creative writing. Florida? Hmmmm, well... let's not dismiss it yet. And so on.

Then, today, it hit me. I've been looking for a Bombay in the US. No city - I am going to pre-empt you and say, no, not even NYC, despite what you hear from most Bombayites in the US - will ever come close to being Home here. Not right now anyhow. Because it isn't about the 'city' or the 'culture' or the 'traffic at 3:00 am' or the 'all-night restaurants' or Prithvi Theater or anything else that you can see or do. It is about the mind, and the comfort factor. It is about feeling physically safe (reluctantly set aside Baltimore/DC although I loved it there), emotionally connected (throw Chicago out instantly), and 'encompassed' like a warm shawl on a September morning (dump NYC, its too big). And these judgments are subjective.

The good part is, I realize now that I'm not looking for a place where I can get the equivalent of a cutting chai at a dingy little corner shop near a train station at 4:00 am in the morning. The hard part is, nowhere but Bombay will I find not the chai but all that a chai-at-dawn adventure represents to someone whose roots go deep into Bombay soil.

So, where is home now, and what does it mean to me? Will I find it anywhere else but Bombay, and how will I know? What sort of emotional shift does that involve, and am I capable of it? Will I always have my career in one city and my heart in another? Last, and most important, what percentage of this entire ramble is really based on the article I mentioned and what percentage is based on the Jhumpa Lahiri book I was skimming last evening??