Kerala

The air is thick, moist. A strong whiff of jackfruit hits me every now and again--a dense, sweet yellow colored fruit, its aroma also sweet, sticky, strong.

Crickets ferociously cry even during the day.

Intensely green foliage between major thoroughfares deceives one into thinking one is in the middle of a tropical wood. Coconut palms rustle everywhere. There are small and large ponds of cool green water. The river Periyar flows into little rivulets creating the ponds.

Narrow streets lead one into the residential areas, their tranquility shattered every few minutes by the blaring horns of cars and motorcycles. Flanking the streets are houses of such variety. Red tiled roofs of glorious erstwhile beauty, boldly colored outer walls ranging from shocking pink to lemon yellow and pistachio green. Large wooden doors decorated with brass trinkets. Some are humble homes from years ago, many of the new are palace and pagoda like--over the top showing off opulence--symbols of prosperity earned in the Middle east. But tasteful all the same.

Temples of yore everywhere--black stone structures mostly. Idols are smeared beautifully with sandalwood paste giving the idol features. God is here. I can feel the presence of a higher power. Perhaps this is because of the peaceful surroundings, perhaps merely because the giant brass lamps lit remind me of happy childhood rituals, perhaps because the women temple goers with wet, freshly washed hair hanging down their backs remind me of how my mother looks during festival days or perhaps because the mantrams are chanted in sonorous voices and the drum beats during prayer time is haunting and hypnotic.

There are sweet expressions on the local folk accompanied by curious stares as I walk by with my baby in his stroller. Close to this little town is the village where my father is from. Not far is the town my mother's people hail from.

I look like the people around me with my dark skin, my unruly curly hair. And yet they know I am not one of them. My clothes, my demeanor, my aura perhaps screams outsider. I know that if I should open my mouth I would reveal that I am indeed an outsider. For although I am from here I speak but a smattering of the local Malayalam.

This is God's country--the tourist posters scream. This is my country, my past. My heritage. This is the place I had once thought could be something more. I had hoped, wondered if it could be home.

But no. This is not home. No, sadly, this is not home.

Divorce

I think I can understand how a child of divorced parents must feel.

Choose one or the other, they are told. You can live with one and the other you can visit.

It is about as hard as choosing between your right eye and your left.

I did not become a citizen of India by choice. That was thrust upon me. But it is mine. I am proud to come from a land of such richness of culture and tradition and yet those things are part of what irritate me the most too. The US I chose to be a citizen of.

I remember at the swearing in ceremony, the judge, the son of Polish immigrants recalled his own parents' swearing ceremony years before. And he said, addressing the crowd of people from over fifty countries--'you have all come from a variety of lands,' he said, 'and now you must leave behind--emotionally--that land for now you are citizens of the United States. I don't mean you must forget where you came from or leave behind your culture or the richness of what you have left behind. No the US is richer because of what you bring to its melting pot. But the identity of it as being who you are must be left behind for now you are American.'

I remember feeling a little put off by those words but now I see that what he said makes sense in that it makes it easier if one can put certain things behind and move on. I thought all those 'Namesake' like identity blues were not mine. I was beyond that. As an adult immigrant, I had my values set, in place. I could truly belong to both places, be a dual citizen in all senses of the world.

And now, living in India and yearning for Chicago, I am lost for the first time in my life in a dilemma that has no easy solution.

Yes I am a dreamer still filled with the nostalgia of my relatively idyllic growing up years in India and seeking an India that sometimes comes so close I can taste it and yet in many ways remains so elusive. My husband assures me such a place does not exist. It does but those encounters of what I love about India although immeasurably wonderful, are fleeting. Or maybe I just don't know where to look.

And now I am torn between my two 'parents'. I love them both and yet it seems I must choose to live with one and have the other only with visitation rights. And I am not liking it one bit.

I know I must choose.But I cannot. It would so easy if I hated one or the other. I only dislike things about each--everyday life is so easy in one, so hard in the other. The idea of bringing up kids seemingly easier in one, an unknown for me in the other.

I love things about each. The smell of fresh bread baking and fresh ground coffee in one country, the sounds of ankle bells jingling in another, the relief of hearing 'may i help you' and knowing I'll be helped in one, the sight of women in colorful outfits decked out in jewelry walking along the streets with a gait one can only envy in another. The divine taste of tandoori fish and seek kakab accompanied by cooling fresh lime juice in one, the soaring sight of the Sears Tower in another, the warm sun in one, the wonderful snow in the other. The list is endless.

How am I supposed to choose? Is there any way these parents of mine can be brought closer together? Is there? Is there?

A day of sights, sounds, stinks and other smells

Only in India can the fragrance of a gorgeous bloom be quickly followed a few steps ahead with the stench of rotting garbage. The earthy smell of drying cow dung be quickly replaced by the reek of exhaust from an old truck. Life here is filled with an assault to all senses, everyday. Nothing is sterile to the senses here.

My morning sounds start with the rustle of the plastic bag outside the door. The milkman is leaving my bags of milk. It is 5:30. Strains of early morning prayer waft from seemingly all over the landscape. The mosque is speaking God's name over a loudspeaker. It is far away enough to be heard and yet not so loud as to be intrusive. I have a few minutes to myself before the baby awakes. Not enough even for a cup of tea. Just a few breaths of solitude.

8 am--the laundry man makes his first round for the day--bringing in the ironing he has taken in from the day before piled high on his bicycle, wrapped in bed sheets of varying colors. The crows cry out. Steel vessels clink close by. Cooking has begun for the day. Voices speak softly. As the time goes, the aroma of frying garlic and onions tease and tempt.

The vegetable supply truck arrives, crates are being off loaded to supply the small but amply stocked vegetable stand ten stories below. Young men's voices cry out urgently. They speak Rajasthani.

Late morning and the cleaning ladies for the building pick up the garbage I leave for them outside the door. The rustle of bags, the tinkle of glass bangles, the soft sweep of their broom.

The bell rings after 11 at regular intervals. First the laundry man picks up my ironing. Brings me back crisply ironed shirts, pants, skirts. Make my clothes look better than they are. My baby's shirt folded like an older man's is the size of my palm. I am in love...

Noon approaches. Cooking is in full swing. Pressure cookers sound, yet more garlic is fried, Depending on the floor one is on, the aroma of different spices fill the air. 3rd and 9th floor, pungent Korean ones, the others garam masala sometimes fresh turmeric, fried onions.

Afternoon and the cleaning lady arrives with some family drama story. I can barely understand her accent. But I nod sympathetically. She talks to the baby constantly keeping him busy as she deftly sweeps and mops the floors. Then she moves on to the dishes from the afternoon. Vessels clank, water flows.

Evenings and the swings start to move--they make a muted screeching, but rhythmic sound. They need oiling badly. But the sounds are far away enough to make one think only of a child playing happily by. Joy is in the air.

The day is peppered at various intervals with the sounds of marble being cut--a nasty grating harsh sound, getting flats ready for their well heeled owners. Strains of old Hindi film songs from the workers' radio. The lift floors covered with cement and mud that magically disappears every few hours only to re appear once again from careless feet and even more careless hands.

Night time. Parties in the distance. Some festival or the other, open ground nearby prepared for a fair. Harsh pop plays over tired loudspeakers. The sound shatters through the breeze as it floats towards our tenth floor flat. The cackle of Korean women having a party one floor below is somehow reassuring.

There is life everywhere, always.