My first memories of London include roaming around the streets as an 8-year-old, overflowing with patriotism upon seeing the wax statue of Mahatma Gandhi at Madame Tussauds and feeling a deep sense of deceit at the sight of the magnificent Kohinoor diamond.
It’s been 17 years since that eventful trip, and the national pride still remains well-intact. At 25, I have decided to come back to the English capital as an international student. It has been exactly 5 months from the time I left my homeland, and every single day away from it only serves an opportunity, and a rather big one at that, to be reminded that being an Indian forms a bigger part of my identity.
As the croaky sound of my alarm sets off amidst stoic silence, I open my eyes to the most serene view of clear skies and the gigantic Wembley Stadium arch. Just when I’m about to turn around and pull my blanket over my face, my thoughts chase me to seek an update on the weather to vaguely assess the rest of my day. Having lived in the perennially hot and humid weather of Mumbai all my life, checking the weather app regularly and seizing my spotlight in the sun is certainly no mean feat and that’s not it; the unpredictability and randomness of the rains in the city make it is hard to miss the sight of my spotted yellow umbrella in my bag at any given time. How the city of London has ably triggered new responsibilities!
With the zip of my jacket pulled up to cover all the bare skin, I take a brief look into my bag to check for all the essentials for the day, including my spotted yellow umbrella. I pace up to the nearest Underground station to catch a 9:23 a.m. train to Baker Street. Despite a careful attempt to place my steel lunch box and my flask in two different corners of my bag, the two make the most engaging sound banging into each other, as I climb up the lengthy stairs of the station, attracting the attention of most passers-by. I run across to the platform before I can even catch my breath, only to find the train beginning to move. “But it’s not even 9:24 as yet!” I exclaim, out of breath, as an expression of disappointment takes over my face.
The aroma of the sabudana khichdi wafts across the compartment of the train. Surprisingly, this is one of the first times I actually feel at home after moving to London. While I relished my amateur cooking, oblivious to my surroundings, I, for once, remind myself that it is okay to let myself slip in the realms of familiarity and revel in the joy of what remains explored. I allow myself a chance to exploit and reunite with the selfless joy of belongingness. I, for one, proudly represent the food I’m eating.
I get off the train taking the potent smell of the well-garnished sabudana that lingers in my hands. The journey from the platform to my class is precisely seven minutes, including the wait time for the lift and I have only 5 minutes to get to my destination. Not withstanding the state of pandemonium my mind is in, I wait at the signal for the pedestrian sign to turn green. It is one of the few moments when I feel like I don’t want to begin something new for the fear of having missed the initial moments. The feeling of being late for my class by 2-3 minutes in a foreign country triggers a sense of hopelessness and defeat.
It is ironic how the things that have consistently been within a focal range in my life have often been the ones most overlooked. More often than not, it is these things that usually bring in the element of stability and allow one to engage in other, so-called “more important” activities. I have realized the hard way that nothing in life comes free, and that includes the independence and freedom I have been explicit and vociferous in demanding. I force myself to think that the reason I’m late for my class is because I tried to spend a little too much time trying to replicate the taste of my mother’s cooking. I convince myself to believe that I’m late because I got busy ironing the clothes I had to wear. I want to tell myself that I’m late is because there was no one that I could ask to clear the mess in my house. How I miss witnessing magic around me when my mum is around!
Most of the people I know here have often been at the receiving end of the endless stories and incidents from India, that I carry around in my headspace. I have already taught some Hindi words to some of the people I bond with and one of the most endearing things I experience is watching them greet me in the most anglicized Hindi I have ever heard.
I have made an exhaustive list of the things I need to purchase on my way home from my university. Knowing the peculiarities of my Indian brain, I’m carrying 4 large plastic bags in my handbag to save myself from any additional costs. Once in the store, I carefully scan through every aisle, making sure that I don’t miss out on any essentials. As I’m checking things off my list, I stop at bhindi or ‘lady finger’. I wander across the aisle in search of the name tag for the green vegetable. I catch hold of one of the staffers, trying to explain what I’m looking for. Watching our animated discussion from afar, a brown man walks up to me and tells me “I think what you are looking for is okra. You will find it in the aisle behind this” in what sounds like a typical Indian accent. There is an inexplicable joy in the feeling of being surrounded by your countrymen when you’re away from your homeland. Through the rest of my time in the store, I’m reveling in the comforting exercise of decoding the mannerisms of the man in a bid to declare him a man form my land.
As I step out of the store with bags brimming with what seems like my stocks for the rainy day, I see droplets of water sliding down the overhead roof. It’s only mid-March and I’m all ready to take out my spotted yellow umbrella.
