by The Stranger in My Home- Facets of a Life (retail) (epub)
So I like talk, just talk, nothing useful or practical, perhaps something facile and frivolous, which still helps me connect and learn. I like places where people talk; I especially like coffee houses where lively conversation mingles with the aroma of strong java, and enthusiasm and brio overtake syllogism and precision.
My first initiation to coffee houses was in India, to a spacious, bright Coffee Board café conveniently located close to both my home and the university on College Street in Kolkata. It seemed forever buzzing with professors and students, journalists and scholars, authors and artists, vagrants and vagabonds. The visitors seemed to have one feature in common: they all wanted to be heard. If there was a quiet person among them, I didn’t meet him. Everybody talked, in unison and at cross purposes, sometimes cogently and always eagerly, frequently at higher and higher decibels when the discussion got heated.
It was a fun place. The stairwell to the hall had cracks and needed repair, some tables were askew and some chairs were in disrepair, but the atmosphere was electric. The ambience was vibrant, the people lively if discordant. Even the waiters were just right: they recognized us and received us with amused tolerance, patient with our slow ordering and perpetual penury. I loved that coffeehouse.
That affection prompted me to explore coffee houses in the many countries my work took me. From embassies and project offices I strayed into cafés in Bogota to Berlin, Kathmandu to Kuala Lumpur, Paris to Port au Prince, Manila to Mexico City. Sitting alone with an espresso, I watched the cavalcade of men and women sipping latte, smoking cigarettes, reading newspapers and, most of all, talking and laughing and sharing. They differed in look and style, but the essential business of exchanging messages and meanings remained unchanged. People need to talk and connect.
Decades later, I returned to Kolkata and, in a salute to my past, walked into another Coffee Board café in Jadavpur, in the CIT Market on Central Road. Compared to sparkling new coffee houses that have sprung up all over the country, this one retained the old-world charm of a commodious hall, raucous with debate and discussion. The stairwell had cracks, the chairs were often askew and tables were in varying states of disrepair, but the ambience was familiar: people talked, animated and excited, fought over political stands and literary opinions, waved their hands and raised their voices, a strange bonhomie wafting over the hall like a familiar aroma.
The coffee was indifferent, but I felt at home.
62
WATER, A FRIEND
AN ENEMY BECAME A BUDDY
I WAS MORTALLY AFRAID of water as a child. I grew up in India and crossed numerous rivers in rickety steamers and puny, undulating boats. I heard cruel stories of helpless men and women gobbled up by giant waves. Water represented something immense and implacable, a merciless monster.
My father sensed this and wanted me to learn swimming. I might have resisted, but some of my friends were learning too and I could not demur without embarrassment. Father had grown up in a village and had learned to swim early. Without a proper trainer, he had acquired an awkward style of swimming, but he could swim a fair distance. Still he was wise enough not to try teaching me himself and appointed an experienced trainer to instruct me.
It took a lot of persuasion to get me into water. Once in though, I wanted to do better than others, and started doing my lessons diligently. Soon I was off in the pool, doing short distances and then longer stretches. I imitated a champion swimmer who had a showy style of stroking and soon attracted a few kudos myself. I started to like swimming.
As I kept swimming, my attitude to water itself changed imperceptibly. Curiously, from an adversary I began to think of the water as my friend. It hugged and caressed; it wanted me to float. Getting into the pool was like being with a pal, who was waiting to receive me with open arms and play with me.
I went to a newly acquired friend’s place for dinner and was thrilled to discover the family had a backyard pool. Though I had neither a swimming costume nor an extra set of clothes, I just could not resist the invitation of the blue water in the pool and dived in. My friend’s parents, unable to stand the sight of me in wet clothes, eventually made me wear his clothes for dinner.
Years later I was in Hong Kong with a friend and we took a steamer ride around the bay in a charming wine and dim sum tour. After the meal, we walked to the end of the deck and she pointed to the wake with her goblet and said something about the glorious sunset. I did not hear it, for I was distracted.
I was looking at the gushing, frothing water and thinking: You frightened me once, but I know now you are a friend and we can be happily together.
63
COMING HOME
RETURN OF THE NATIVE
WHAT DOES IT MEAN to visit your country of birth after thirty-five years?
First, curiosity. What does it look like now? Of course, every place you visit has changed; most places have changed radically. The roads are better, the buildings taller, there are new flyovers and subways. Admittedly the roads are not cleaner, the buildings defy both taste and norms, and there are stories of subway accidents and flyover crashes. No matter. The changes are signs of some vibrancy, an undeniable groping for a better life, a matter of interest and curiosity.
Second, empathy. Life in general is far harder in Kolkata or Konnagar than in Washington. Life in the US is impersonal, but organized and convenient. Banking or travelling, paying bills or renovating your home does not mean waiting, standing in line, pleasing petty bosses or greasing greedy palms. So you come and see friends, colleagues and relatives, people no worse than you, suffering slings and arrows that you have long buried in the past, and it evokes a strange mix of concern and empathy.
And yet, thirdly, there is a curious sense of comfort. The city, despite all the changes, feels like a familiar groove, where you can once again breathe in a familiar air, polluted and lung-busting to be sure, but also warm, friendly, heart-lifting. You take a turn, the locale seems vaguely familiar, you look for the old café, before you realize you are mistaken, you are in effect lost, and yet you don’t feel uncomfortable, for you feel somehow in accustomed terrain, like an old shoe or tea in a cracked but cherished cup.
Then there is the reckoning, with wreckage and ruination. Two of the houses I had lived in Kolkata exist, one inhabited and the other deserted, but both look worse than ruined. They appear like ghost houses. Two others have been demolished mercilessly, replaced by giant ill-designed structures that seem fit habitat only for purblind creatures. I am told those are high-priced apartment buildings, but to me these look like an unkind shelter for wounded spirits.
Contrasting with those ravages is the pleasure of encountering what hasn’t changed. After savouring haute cuisine in fifty countries, I still exult over what you find street vendors purvey on Mumbai streets and tiny restaurants serve on Kolkata’s winding lanes. The joy of rediscovering what I had enjoyed and loved as a callow youth is immeasurable. Music is now eminently portable, yet I have to come to India to realize what vast treasures remain beyond my reach without a visit to my pristine land.
None of this comes anywhere near the heart of the matter. The biggest reason you come back is because of the people. People you know, people you have known and people you expect to know. The faces of my friends are no longer wrinkle-free, some move slowly and some don’t move at all. Their minds sometimes wander, their memories falter, their interests diverge from mine, but they are still my friends. I am glad they smile as they receive me, and accept my angularities as readily as they did earlier. I value their friendship and cherish their affection.
Not just my friends. Why do even the strangers, in this land from which I am now decidedly estranged, act so kind, helpful and generous? Why do their words evince such warmth when I ask a question or need some help? Why do they walk hundreds of yards to show me the turn I must take to reach some obscure destination that has significance only for a man in exile? What is that ineffable link that connects me to this land, these people, this whole culture an
d will not snap?
That is what I feel: a man in exile, not estranged, not even – as the official term goes – ‘expatriated’, but just someone who has been abroad for a long time, but has now taken the time to come home.
64
BELIEVER
WHAT DOES ONE REALLY BELIEVE IN?
AFTER NEARLY TEN YEARS of work in a Silicon Valley giant, my friend L.R. – he preferred to go by those initials – founded his own technology start-up in 2000. He spent all his savings, borrowed from his family, and took a loan from his bank. But few knew of what he considered his biggest resource.
L.R. was a deeply religious man. He certainly didn’t have the aspect of a pious person. He was a flamboyant guy, who wore tailored suits, sported expensive watches and drove the latest Porsche. He hosted parties at fancy places and drank us, his friends, under the table. He had a reputation for shrewd packaging and sharp negotiation. Yet he was a scrupulous churchgoer and active on several church committees.
Many people go to church for social reasons, but L.R. believed deeply in divine guidance and dispensation. He told me that he would never have started his business if he did not believe God wanted him to work independently, offer jobs to other people and use his bigger earnings to help his church and his community. He saw a clear link between piety and prosperity.
That kind of faith was not my cup of tea and I remember pulling his leg by broaching the well-known Biblical problem of a camel trying to negotiate the eye of a needle. He laughed and ignored the issue of wealth. He said that providence was showing him the way to double his employee strength the following year. That proved correct: the software his team had developed for construction companies was picked up by some major companies and his enterprise more than doubled.
It was an extraordinary story of success in the following years and I saw his picture on the cover of two business magazines. When I congratulated him, he spoke graciously of his colleagues, but did not forget to add that a benign divine hand had helped him choose just the right kind of people who could help him carry out his vision.
Then came the bust of 2008, construction froze, and I heard from friends that L.R.’s company had downsized significantly. When I got in touch with him, L.R. said ruefully that the business was no longer viable and he had been forced to sell its remnant to a larger group.
We met for lunch six months later. L.R. was now an adjunct professor in a business school and spoke enthusiastically of his students and courses. He had moved into an apartment and no longer drove the Porsche. I asked him if he missed his earlier life when he was a model of success in the business world.
His reply stunned me. He said he had enjoyed the excitement of starting an enterprise and taking it to the pinnacle of success. He felt, however, that kind of busy, bustling life was good only for a while. He did not care for a life of sustained tension, but did not know how to take his hands off the helm of his company. God had shown him the way by creating circumstances where he could move, step by step, to a simpler, quieter and happier life.
He was now at peace and very grateful. I was amazed.
65
GETTING HOME
DISCOVERING MY PLACE
‘WHEN DO I SEE you again?’
‘I am not quite sure.’
‘Have you completed the papers the consulate has sent you.’
‘I will get around to those this week.’
‘Please do. Those are essential for the visa.’
I had been busy and my life seemed full. I had a demanding corporate job, managed a non-profit in the evening and taught part-time in the university. Also, I edited a literary journal, wrote columns for a professional magazine and did serious photography. I rowed early morning and partied late evening.
In walked an intruder, least expected. She spoke softly and smiled often. Her boss, a close friend, wanted me to help her with a project she was supervising. We worked together but soon found each other more interesting than the work. My work and writing went on the back-burner and the parties began to seem lacklustre. I longed to be with her.
The next eighteen months, carefree and joyous, passed quickly. The fresh-faced, gentle-eyed woman, who had walked so unceremoniously into my life, was now to leave it just as unceremoniously. Her project was nearly done; the deadline for her overseas report was approaching fast, in a far-off US university; her parents in Minnesota wanted her back for Christmas. Disconcertingly, definitively, a friendly police officer told me her visa, extended twice already, would not have a period of grace.
‘Would you like to come with me to the US, for a short visit?’
‘But your parents want you with them.’
‘You could come with me.’
‘Don’t you have your project report to finish?’
‘All right, all right.’
I couldn’t get any leave at the time, in any case. Off she went, alone, back to the US, her parents and her university.
She quickly applied for a visa for me. The local consulate sent me the papers. It was a complicated affair and I shrank from the task. She persisted and called me to comply quickly.
Then she went a step further. She went to her senator, who chaired the committee dealing with immigration. The next thing I knew, I had a call from the US consul, ‘Please come and see me tomorrow.’ The forms were done in ten minutes. The consul waived the requirement for documents I didn’t have. The visa arrived in a week.
Now began a frantic race against the clock. I had to persuade my company to let me go, without the required notice. The non-profit organization I had painstakingly built had to be left with a friend. There was no time to sell my home; I just handed the key to my brother and the furniture to people who wanted them, at a price or at no price. My books went to a library, my clothes to a charity, my music collection to friends. I did not close the bank account, for the prevailing exchange control meant I couldn’t exchange my rupees for dollars.
‘When do you leave?’
‘I don’t know yet. Trying to get some dollars.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Just come, please.’
‘I don’t want to arrive and panhandle!’
‘You won’t have to. Come quickly.’
My parents came to see me off at the airport. They waved from a balcony as I treaded the tarmac to board the plane. I was leaving the place I knew, the people I loved, for a distant land and unknown future. I did not have the reassurance of a promised job or even a padded wallet.
The aircraft was crowded, the flight painfully long. My short seatmate sat sullenly and drank wordlessly. That left me alone with my uncertain thoughts.
The plane stopped at Dulles International Airport with a sharp jolt. A warm, sultry July afternoon greeted us. I jostled ahead with a motley crowd of summer tourists, getting into lines, going up and down stairs, riding on escalators, showing papers, answering questions, and finally entering the lounge. Around me people were greeting people, talking, laughing, hugging. My sullen seatmate, smiling broadly, held the hand of a little boy.
Amid the hubbub, I stood aside, tired, lost, expectant.
And, then, there was a sudden swirl of long blonde hair, a familiar flash of glimmering blue eyes, a dizzy blur of the world’s sweetest sounds, smells and sensations. Next moment, the bright overhead lights of the airport were going round and round, as were a pair of slender arms around my neck.
Found! I was no longer tired or lost. I was home.
66
DISCOVERING MOTHER
THE MOTHER SHE LONGED FOR
IT WAS THE STUFF of dreams. Literally.
Olga had always dreamed of a mother. Her school mates and friends had mothers. Most lived with them. She didn’t. She didn’t even know how her mother looked. She had no picture of her mother. Her mother had left when she was an infant, and she had no memory of the person who had brought her into the world.
Olga lived with her uncle, her mother’s brother, whose two children were like her brother and sister,
though they were cousins. Her true anchor had been her grandmother, whose unflinching love had sustained her through childhood years. But even she had baulked at questions about her mother. She knew, without even asking, that her uncle would be just as reticent on the subject.
Her aunt, Mother’s only sister, lived nearby, and often came along to see her. Sometimes when she didn’t have school, Olga went with her and stayed in her home for a few days. She knew without asking that her aunt wouldn’t like to talk about her mother either. Nobody wanted to talk about the person who, as she grew up, had increasingly occupied her thoughts.
The only thing she could know was what she had overheard. Her mother’s name, Edilma. The name reverberated endlessly in her ears: Edilma. Edilma. Day by day, perhaps even night by night, an image had formed in Olga’s mind of her missing mother.
Not just her face. The way she talked, walked, smiled, even touched her daughter. Surely she must have loved Olga. Then why had she gone away, she asked herself repeatedly. She wanted so much to love her mother – yes, she loved her as any daughter would – but, the next instant, she would be overwhelmed by a giant wave of resentment. How could she leave the daughter she undoubtedly loved? How could she stay away so long without coming to see her? There was nobody to answer her questions. Even to hear them.
Olga was seventeen the day her aunt came rushing to their home. She wanted to talk immediately with her uncle. What she had to say electrified her uncle as much as Olga who stood listening near the door. After seventeen years, Edilma had suddenly reappeared in her sister’s home to ask about her daughter. She wanted, said the aunt with trepidation, to see her daughter.
