(18 July ’10)
Anyone leaving the
family, school, country, job, feels that little twinge, sometimes more than a
tug, a sense of insecurity, an overwhelming wave of emotion and memories.
Parting due to death or ditching are not included in this list, for those
partings are heartbreaking and in a different league.
I always wonder how my
Mama left Palolem, Canacona, Goa, to cross the seas in the early ‘forties, when
there was no communication at all between lands a month’s journey away and
home, when food habits weren’t as diverse as they are now, when inter-country
cuisine wasn’t even heard of never mind available in Europe, when the UAE was
still several decades from being born… what must have crossed his mind when he
took that bullock-cart to go away in the pursuit of academics. How homesick
must he have been for his language, the smell of coconut husk warming his
bath-water, the sound of his siblings’ laughter, the rustling of the giant
peepul that stood sentinel outside in the aangan, the dramatic rains, the dried
fish… and more. Surely, he must have felt alone, diffident, afraid, cold,
cheerless, friendless? Yet, that adventure did the family good. He defied society
norms and married a Portuguese lady, educated his siblings, took care of his
youngest sisters, extended a hand to nieces, nephews, and even another
generation… for many decades thereafter.
Sea-farers, traders,
entrepreneurs, Goans had left Goa’s shores to find work, treasure, excitement.
Were they less attached to their roots? We’ll never find out. The mass
migration to Bombay for education and work changed the history of the people of
Karwar, Goa and the Konkan forever. Try to remember, that in those days,
journeys meant scarce water, no baths for weeks together, nausea, itching, lots
of luggage, strange lands where no one had seen a ‘foreigner’, gagging over
unfamiliar tastes, a confusion of faces and noises, exposure to low
temperatures with very little warm clothing… and no money to buy any more.
In the ‘sixties began
the exodus from India to the UK, the USA, and wherever else people could work.
I remember large send-offs (why didn’t we call them farewells?) at Santacruz
airport, entire families turning up with garlands, sweets, hankies, tears. I
remember hearing words like visa, passport, little knowing what they meant.
Going to America meant going really far away, and one didn’t know when one
would see one’s beloved again… or at all, for crossing the ocean was very, very
expensive, and returning not an option. Again, the middle-class people went for
‘studies’. Again, the entire family benefited by this stepping stone. Siblings
were given a better education, assured better jobs, parents were sent money…
though some debate that that was not a ‘benefit’.
Leaving school is one
of the most emotional events. Ask any tenth standard girl. Never-ever-forget,
love-you-forever, tears, autograph books, hugs, nightover pyjama parties,
endless nostalgic chats take as much time as studies. Even the guys get
misty-eyed. The years one spends in school mould your life. One always stands
up at the sound of a primary teacher’s voice, no matter for how many decades
you’ve been parted from her.
Amongst those attuned to
the joint family system, leaving the house is considered a traumatic thing. One
of my cousins, whose son and mine are the same age and were married around the
same time, told me when mine opted to move to a place of his own: “I take it
for granted that the young couple will live with me. If they move out, I will
be sad.” As for me? I like my space. Those who leave the family not out of
choice but compulsion are forever moaning about missing the food (every true
blue Indian equates every emotion with food), the dog, the servants, the
plants, the mother, neighbours, childhood friends. For Indians, parting from
the family is a big event.
As one whose husband
had a transferable job, I’ve learnt not to get attached to a place. I’ve learnt
that human beings don’t change much from place to place, whatever their race,
their occupation. Cultures differ, not temperaments. Manners change, not
habits. In spite of that, when it comes to leaving a place after several years
of domesticity, there is more than a twinge that plucks at the soul. I miss the
grocer, the servant, the jhaadoowala, the air, the soil, everything.
But, to me, the most
painful always has been leaving my job(s). I have found that I bond with
colleagues, love my routine, love the activity that I do, and am hugely
apprehensive each time I move out. This time, for the first time, I’ve worked
steadily and hard for ten long years: almost as long as my school years (we had
eleven years then), a lifetime of sorts. I know that some day I must leave it,
retire, and I dread that day. I, who have so many interests outside my day job,
who has such good family support away from office, why do I dread that so? The
answer, I fathom is that human beings don’t really like change. We adjust to
the seasons, to relationships, but basically crave for stability. Even when the
change is for the better, it hurts: now I understand the words ‘sweet sorrow’.
It’s not just about romance or Romeo and Juliet.
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