Straight from the Heart... my small town and the festivals.

Hey Stalker!

I came across this beautiful poem by Wang Ping called "Things We Carry in the Sea". Whose excerpts are like:

"We carry soil in our small bags; may home never fade in our hearts

We carry names, stories, memories of our villages, fields, boats"

And also another couplet:

We carry old homes along the spine, new dreams on our chests

We carry yesterday, today, and tomorrow...

I always tend to feel a bit lonely whenever its major festival in India. Today is Dusshehra. I miss my small town. It's called Indore; the name of which is unheard by most people.

When I was a boy, I used to be excited about this day. Used to watch Ramayan on TV and then would wear new clothes and wait for evening Pooja. Then Baba would take us to watch the Raavan. Sometimes at Jai Baba's house or at Dusshehra Maidan. 

One time I remember, we went to Babu Bhai's house and he made us Kheer. He was a Qaadri (a Muslim), but that's the beauty of our town; people were knit together as if it was a family. However, Babu Bhai is no more. And I left that small world a long time ago. Baba used to take us to Phullu Baba's bakery too. He'd give us Pastries and cream rolls and whatnot out of love. I came to know that Phullu Baba also passed away. 

Then Maau Baba. Maau Baba (Indrajit Singh Rathore) used to come to our home on Baasi Dusshera to meet Baba Dadi and Papa. He always used to take me on rides. He was Baba's best friend. Maau Baba, an ex-army veteran also passed away lately. I can't remember any distinct memories of Dusshehra with Papa. But Baba always made sure that me and Sarthak celebrated every festival.

I've left Indore for good. And with it, these festivals are just memories in my head. My small city. My people. The smell of sweets at Babuseth Pedewala. Distributing Sona Patti. Counting money given by elders. Meeting my cousins, bua, Pushpa Dadi, Doctor Baba, Fufa Baba, Shankarganj... everything is now just a memory..

When friends tell me that I'm making a good career, a good life, and so on.. I want them to know what I've given up just for a good future for my wife, for my children.. Boston indeed is the best thing happened to me; but my town, though insignificant on map still remains the same in my heart.

Today, I just want a tight hug. I want to stay silent for a minute. I want to hear from someone that one day this would make sense. It hurts a lot to admit, but there's a strange sense of detachment from Indore now. The illusion or memory of Indore, which is still alive in my mind, is what I'm attached to. 

Those narrow lanes, small malls, my college, Dosa at ICH and Romba's, papa's aviator, my cracked helmet, mummy sitting on the porch, that mango tree in the lawn, the Indori slangs, palasia, 56... this was my town. My birthplace. Dusshehra and Diwali remind me of these sweet memories. Smell of my soil.

Relentless pursuit of ambitions comes at a cost. Someday when I will rest, I hope to open a small cafe in Indore. Serving coffee to young couples. Finding my incomplete youth in their eyes, in a small town again.

And we carry our mother tongues
爱(ai)，حب  (hubb), ליבע (libe), amor, love
平安 (ping’an), سلام ( salaam), shalom, paz, peace 
希望 (xi’wang), أمل (’amal), hofenung, esperanza, hope, hope, hope

As we drift…in our rubber boats…from shore…to shore…to shore…

Happy Dusshehra Folks!

S