Xxx The golden cage!
Today visited Durga Puja celebrations organized by Bengali Association at Memphis. The gathering was mix of young and old, children and grown ups, men and women of Bengal or Bengali origin. There were some non Bengalis like me. Talked to some seniors who been here for fifty years or more. All professionals in the field of medicines, education, management and technocrats. The very fact that they celebrate Durga Puja every year makes me to think that since they cannot visit the country this time of the year every now and then, they have brought the country to Memphis. They somehow want to keep in touch with their roots.
Some of them are parents of children settled here. Parents who spent a good part of their life in India and for various reasons decided to join their children here on permanent basis. Everything is better here- better climate, comfortable carefree living, no pollution, no power outs, twenty four hours water supply, healthy food, air-conditioned housing. On top it there are loving and caring children and grand children. Then what is that which is saying no! it is not for me? Like a bird in a golden cage wishing to fly away! How come that this does not feel like a home?
There have been stories of people returning to their homes after almost a whole life spent in a foreign country. As young, to make it big in life, they left for foreign shores with a suitcase and possibly a bottle of native water. Left for a place they knew no body, off to a place of strange language and culture, into a place with unforgiving climate and difficult terrains. And as they start growing old, the emptiness creeps in. The desire to be cremated or buried six feet down under in a familiar place called home crops up.
But what is home? Is not is a place where you live irrespective of where you were born? Is home not a place where the heart is? Is it not a place where your children live?
Mamata who got permanent residency a few years back and keeps shuttling to and fro India has no definite clue. Mamata is missing the house she was raised in, she is missing the house she made her home and lived for over fifty years with her husband. She is missing the home where she raised her chodren. She is missing here cousins, relatives, friends, neighbors. She is even missing the vegetables vendors, the milk booth, the ironing man, the paperwala, the scrap dealer, almost every body with whom she talked now and then. She is even missing the chaos in the street, the garbage dumps,the uncertain water or power supply. She is missing almost everything and finds nothing as replacement in comparison.
She is in the state of to be or not to be. On the one side is the assured love and care of her children in the sun set years of her life and on the side is the long life lived back in India.
Today visited Durga Puja celebrations organized by Bengali Association at Memphis. The gathering was mix of young and old, children and grown ups, men and women of Bengal or Bengali origin. There were some non Bengalis like me. Talked to some seniors who been here for fifty years or more. All professionals in the field of medicines, education, management and technocrats. The very fact that they celebrate Durga Puja every year makes me to think that since they cannot visit the country this time of the year every now and then, they have brought the country to Memphis. They somehow want to keep in touch with their roots.
Some of them are parents of children settled here. Parents who spent a good part of their life in India and for various reasons decided to join their children here on permanent basis. Everything is better here- better climate, comfortable carefree living, no pollution, no power outs, twenty four hours water supply, healthy food, air-conditioned housing. On top it there are loving and caring children and grand children. Then what is that which is saying no! it is not for me? Like a bird in a golden cage wishing to fly away! How come that this does not feel like a home?
There have been stories of people returning to their homes after almost a whole life spent in a foreign country. As young, to make it big in life, they left for foreign shores with a suitcase and possibly a bottle of native water. Left for a place they knew no body, off to a place of strange language and culture, into a place with unforgiving climate and difficult terrains. And as they start growing old, the emptiness creeps in. The desire to be cremated or buried six feet down under in a familiar place called home crops up.
But what is home? Is not is a place where you live irrespective of where you were born? Is home not a place where the heart is? Is it not a place where your children live?
Mamata who got permanent residency a few years back and keeps shuttling to and fro India has no definite clue. Mamata is missing the house she was raised in, she is missing the house she made her home and lived for over fifty years with her husband. She is missing the home where she raised her chodren. She is missing here cousins, relatives, friends, neighbors. She is even missing the vegetables vendors, the milk booth, the ironing man, the paperwala, the scrap dealer, almost every body with whom she talked now and then. She is even missing the chaos in the street, the garbage dumps,the uncertain water or power supply. She is missing almost everything and finds nothing as replacement in comparison.
She is in the state of to be or not to be. On the one side is the assured love and care of her children in the sun set years of her life and on the side is the long life lived back in India.
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