A most unusual afternoon

I have homemade Kimchi in my fridge. I didn't make it although I have done so quite successfully, in the past. I got this batch from my downstairs neighbor. A Korean woman who along with three kids (11, 14 and 17) and a husband who owns a business somewhere close by has made her home in India for three years now and plans to stay for "10-20 years..." in her own words.

The unusual thing is not that she is Korean. What is baffling is that she speaks virtually no English or Hindi or Marathi.

This is India not the United States. This is not a land of immigrants, quite the opposite. There is no Korea Town or Korean grocery or place where Koreans can feel a bit "at home." And yet--someone told me this--our building complex has several Korean families. How did that happen??

So this very sweet woman who speaks no language understood by Indians by and large likes living here. She has plied me with Kimchi, Korean coffee and delicious Tofu which, by the way, started our acquaintance. I saw a young fella in the lift carrying a pot with three large blocks of Tofu. Of course missing one of our favorite foods that isn't really consumed much in India, I pounced--is that tofu? Yes he said. Where did you get it? Downstairs from a friend, he said. I realized he lived one floor below us.

The next day I find two large blocks in my fridge. My dad said a Korean woman from downstairs had brought some. I visited her right then with a small box of Indian spices and she sent me back with Kimchi and Korean coffee and an armful of Korean ramen. I felt so silly returning her favor with my small box of spices!

Her kids, also super friendly but speak little English. They all spoke amongst themselves, commenting on my older son's looks, asking to be shown the baby, asking us to please visit again, promising to visit themselves.

And visit they did, laden with more Korean food. They stayed, had some coffee, some snacks. They called and invited another Korean woman and her daughter living on a floor below. These women and one other spent a lot of time together.

After tea and such, my baby was getting antsy and so I asked them if they'd like to take a walk. And we did. It was a strange sight. My two sons and I accompanied by three Korean women and three Korean kids. All through the walk, they chattered amongst themselves, smiling at us every now and again, telling me where I might be able to find good vegetables. People stared but they didn't seem to care. I felt awkward for them but they looked totally comfortable. When having tea at our place I commented on some incessant sources of noise. They agreed it was there but didn't make a big deal of it, didn't go at all ballistic like I do.

I asked them what they did for movies? "Download from Internet," my downstairs neighbor said gleefully.

I began thinking--what does one need, truly need to be happy? Me, I need peace, quiet, good food, my people of course--that is a given, movies and books, all in different order of importance depending on the day.

To these people--I still haven't quite understood why--India, or our city Pune is more attractive than Seoul. Perhaps it's just business but I don't think so. For just business can't keep someone in a place they don't care for. Not for long.

I wish I could find out but the language barrier is a barrier that makes it difficult to ask philosophical questions. And so all I do is observe that despite the language barrier, despite the racial barrier, despite being such a minority, truly, these people looked and seemed more at home in this land that I am a native of than I feel right now.

An accidental tourist

An old friend asked me if I feel like a tourist in India.

He should know for he said he felt like one in the US and in his home country too.

It was a very wise question and the answer is sadly, a resounding YES!

I am not proud of it. I wish I could truly call a place home. I didn't grow up in the state I am a native of. Ancestral homes merely made appearances on one or two short visits every few years and late night stories for me. And so after putting a lot of thought into the reasons why, the conclusion is unmistakable--the blame, I have decided shall rest squarely on my parents' shoulders.

My brother and I grew up in rather idyllic settings, away from the bustle of Bombay and at the overripe age of 16 when I was unceremoniously moved out of said idyllic settings into the real city, I was a mess. Unable and unwilling to adjust and eager to escape not back to where we came from, for that was impossible, but to somewhere that old place might be duplicated. It wasn't just that we were spoilt--not with material goods anyway, but with a lifestyle that can only be described as well...not healthy for an impressionable, precocious child. That said I had friends growing up there around us who seem to be well adjusted now. So lets just say parents' fault and oddball genes--double whammy.

Or perhaps I foolishly took all our privileges that came from being the kid of a highly placed dad seriously. The chauffeur driven cars, the palatial houses surrounded by fragrant Eucalyptus trees, the gardeners maintaining beautiful gardens around us. All that good stuff.

Or maybe it isn't just that. Old Indian culture was inculcated strictly and came easily in the form of dance and music lessons. But my parents were never involved in and therefore seldom exposed us much to the whole popular and/or Bollywood culture. For the first ten years of my life, our TV didn't work. After that isolated as we were, going to the movies would have been too much of a trek and so we subsisted on the Hollywood fare my uncle got us on his visits from Kuwait, farmers programming (amchi mati amchi manse for those who know), cozy old Marathi movies and the odd Star Trek I episodes and such that came on TV on weekends when we did have a TV that worked.

I wonder what it is then that makes me Indian enough to want to defend this country to people, to explain her follies. I am not indifferent to her greatness, to the wonder that is India. At the same time I defend America too with fervor, especially when people take potshots at her. It is a land I admire greatly.

Why does the Indian national anthem make me cry with a mixture of joy and pride every single time. The last lines of the American anthem also make me cry, and also with wonderful pride and happiness at being American. I love both these countries. One is my motherland, the other the land I "married into", my adopted land. I defend and love both with equal fervor. I detest certain things about both too with equal fervor.

So does that mean I belong? Does that make me a true Indian American? Or is that statement in itself an Oxymoron.

Truth is I wish I could actually spend my mornings in one place and evenings in the other or even one week here and the other here. I wish I could buy my vegetables at the bazaars here and my cereals in the local grocery in Lombard. That would be perfect. I have always liked having my cake and eating it too.

Of course that is not possible and so here I am. A tourist. By accident of birth, upbringing, education, years spent all over, over thinking, over analyzing.

My do I envy those who have a place, one place that is truly home.

Or perhaps for people like me, home can only be where the people I love are. My husband, my sons, my brother, my parents, my friends. But my dearest friends are now left behind in America!

If only I could somehow have everyone in one place, squeeze the world so the distances aren't so immense. Now that would be a perfect world.

That place, wherever it could be, would be home.

The beauty...the sheer beauty

I stopped by at Cottage industries and a couple antique shops a few days ago.

Cottage Industries works directly with artisans and so one can leave any manner of guilt about giving money to middle men at the doorstep. And I did.

The guard opens the door.

I step in and a fragrant whiff of sandalwood incense combined with a light rose scent trails into the nostrils. It's the smell, in my opinion of Indian luxury. Now as an aside, no one does luxury like India. Ironic given the state of some of her citizens but truly, between the silks and the diamonds and gold that women can be swathed in, not to mention the sweets and rich foods, warm lemony bowls to wash greasy fingers even in ordinary restaurants, kingly marble floors and rosewood and teak furniture...you get the picture.

Where was I? Yes the scent in this store. A glorious, comfortable, old world and positively luxurious scent. One that you can just sink into. Imagine a warm, long afternoon with cups of tea accompanied by sweet and spicy snacks. Its no ordinary tea but the kind one can sip lounging and sunken lazily in silk cushions, having pleasant chatter with pleasant company.

Anyhoo, that was the first few seconds worth of effect on the senses. What was to follow was the kind of effect on the visual that can only be described as breathtaking. Embroidered bed spreads with mirrors glimmering here and there, as if partly hidden and yet partly visible, applied just so in order to entice. Carved wooden boxes, sculpted onyx vases, bronze Ganeshas and Saraswatis of exquisite beauty. Dressers, coffee tables, cupboards with inlay and carved facades. Ooh la la. Furniture one doesn't dare really use, so delicate are they.

Following that I visit a store or more like an island in the middle of Pune called Sanskriti. Once more I am surrounded by antiques and antique reproductions from all over India. I buy a round brass tin for want of better words with a sort of charming little padlock. It was used to store anything from money to rotis in Rajasthan, the glamorous, ex army wife owner of the store, explains in polished English. I also buy a pan box made of wafer thin bronze, probably made for a Muslim woman, the proprietor says. Of course, only a Muslim woman would be beautiful enough to use this as her beetle leaf box. I feel a thrill go down my spine. I must bring my husband to check out the furniture, I say. She uses recycled Burma teak for the antique furniture reproductions. Beautiful and responsible. Did I just die and go to heaven? I am in love with this store. With three cottages housing its wares and the cottages separated by lush lawns and gardens where one can imagine peacocks roaming around, this place is one I am tempted to move into.

Before I leave, I close my eyes, think of the hands that created such beauty, hands of artisans of such great calibre. I am moved by the beauty, the sheer beauty of their labor.

I leave, excitedly making plans for decorating my new albeit rented home.