2:45 a.m. Jetlag must
have a purpose. I decide as I stare at the ceiling.
It must. Just think about it. We are on one continent, time
zone, whatever… our body is still on another. That right there, my friends, is
the beauty of jetlag. Its purpose, is
to help us process everything we experienced in another time zone and bring it
back into our current one.
Rather metaphoric, huh? For along with our body, our mind
and oftentimes, our heart is also in the other place. So staring at the ceiling
and the time and space and thought it allows, must be an important part of the
transition from one universe to another. Hmm… I would rather really just sleep,
but who am I to battle the Universe and its ways. My mind continues to wander
continents – beautiful, historical England, vibrant, chaotic, beautiful India.
My mind moves to the clothes from my suitcase in the corner
of the room. It stops (rather alarmed) at a pair of golden pants. It pauses. It
wonders. Did I really by them? Will I ever wear them?
3:30 a.m. I think
of India. Vignettes of people, places, food, people again, laughter, memories,
more people… all flash before the eye. Why must reentry always be so hard?
Especially from India. I think of the square peg, round hole piece I had
written a while back. About changing, going back to old places, not quite
fitting in. Not quite fitting in either place, really. For a part of our ethos,
who we are, is from where we came, the old place, but it changes, adapts so
much in the new place, that we remain square pegs in round holes -- in both
places, perhaps.
4:50 a.m. I tiptoe
downstairs. I find my laptop. I decide to type a blogpost. My last post is
about transitions. I smile at the irony. Well here’s another one. The hardest ever.
For this one involves leaving people behind. People who you are concerned
about, who you want to help, but are too far away to do so, people who make you
laugh, who make you remember who you were, (who you still are, perhaps, deep
inside?) people who you can be with, and just be. These are all your old
people…
6:15 a.m. I rummage
in the pantry looking for the chiwda
my friend packed for me. Her mom has sent it for me. She remembered how much I
had loved it the last time. I should
call her, I think. I can’t help but think of the connectedness of Eastern
societies. Such actions are so seamless and easy. And not unusual. Much of it
conflicts with the idea of “personal space” - which trust me, is a wonderful
thing, but again I wonder if it leaves me lonely in the West. I wonder if I am
a different person in the East and a different one in the West. I wonder if I
am too “Western” when I’m in the East, and too “Eastern/Indian” when I’m in the
West.
I think again of my golden pants. It somehow made sense to
buy them in India. And really, if you have an image of shimmery, shiny,
sequined, flowing pants, you may put that image to rest. For mine are a muted
silk and quite simple and straight, really. Or so I can hope… sigh…
6:50 a.m. I make
chai. I dunk in it, the flaky khari
my mom has sent for my husband. Neither should mind, I decide. As light creeps
into the house and I sit drinking chai by myself, I realize that this may be
the first time in weeks I’m drinking a cup of chai all by myself. I think of many
conversations around many cups of chai in India.
I think of my golden palazzo pants again. They made sense in
the Indian context, and after all, the “Indian context” is part of who I am. So
why put them away forever, or reserve them for Indian festivities when I can
wear them with silk kurtis?
As we age and begin to accept ourselves for who we are, we
understand we are after all, a combination of many things, experiences, and
influences. And immigrants, know too well, they will always be a mix of
multiple places, cultures and being -- whether or not golden palazzo pants are
involved.
