Am I finally embracing my much-ignored-by-me roots or is it that finally I am learning to go back to the shell I belong? Then again, do I belong to any?
The realization set my mind back in the time now lost… to the time when mom was alive. Rituals were observed and there were celebrations. Festivals were awaited and there were preparations even for day to day life. Let’s picture a house all adorned with strings of marigold and water-bowls of rose petals placed at the center of an alpana. How many years since? Ten…? Twenty…? Whoever said time heals, I have a question for him- the most obvious one.
How long before I turn deaf to these calls of memory of the times that was blatantly scraped off my timeline?
I bought a mixer grinder the other day, my first one ever. I was excited to make use of it, but that joy was amiss. I found myself brooding upon the time when it wasn’t a big deal. We owned most of the gadgets, some even imported.
And one fine morning, as it was destined, I lost my home.
Along with, I lost my culture, joy of celebrating festivals and the need to remember what marked as traditions at my home, in my culture or during festivals… nothing mattered.
It is over two decades that a coconut was bought, at my place. I was merrily munching a chunk as I used to even back then when the fruit sprang that sapling in my mind.
I am not depressed anymore; only in denial mode. Come to think of it; there isn’t a single soul around who has lived this transition from then to now to understand this loss. Though it’s exciting that I successfully prepared something new, i.e., not belonging to our food culture per se, the smile up my face is lost. I needed vodka to blend in name of enjoying a drink with coconut water. The raw coconut water tasted as though a bitter concoction was being poured down my throat.
I am in my reflective zone- indecisive if I should smile or cry. I am not in my sixties or even fifties or forties. I wonder when did I live so long that the events dead are finding trails to haunt me in my present?