Sense of Belonging?? Phew... Now Whats That??

My hubby happens to be a software man. And once I had to (well not really had to, rather willingly) accompany him to US for two years. It was then that I came across this serious psychological issue- 'sense of belonging'. Friends and people back in Kolkata kept insisting that I cannot feel at home in that foreign country because there is no sense of belonging. I was left thinking, is it really so? I could not dare say that I was enjoying myself in that country in fear of being labelled "Typical NRI Syndrome". Its true I never wanted to settle there down but to be truthful there was no such dilemma called sense of belonging either. Or rather lack of it. I tried retrospecting and analyzing the matter.

I hail from the famous (or infamous) small town Jhumri Telaiya. It happened to be a part of Bihar and in 1999-2000 came under Jharkhand. For a while, I thought where do I belong to? Jharkhand or Bihar? We originally belong to Pabna,a town in Bangladesh. I took it rather offensively if someone called me 'ghoti'- people belonging to West Bengal instead of calling me 'Bangal'- the Bangladeshis. But this fact of origin does not stir the emotion of patriotism for Bangladesh nor do I feel something special on 21st February. Another clash on question of belonging!

My surname is Mazumdar. We were originally the Mishras from Kannauj who later became Bagchi and eventually received the title "Mazumdar". So, if traced long back and adhere to the theory, may be we were not Bengalis at all, something my Ma does not prefer being related to. Yet another clash about belonging!

 I must mention another 'sensitive' issue. As mentioned before, Mazumdar is a title given to the landlords. Anybody, brahmin or kayashtha could receive this title. Now, Brahmins were rarely the landlords, and my ancestors were one of those rare few. Till 2005, that is till I got married, it never bothered me whether I'm a Brahmin or non Brahmin, it does not bother me today either. Being Brahin never helped or paid me in any way. But suddenly after my marriage to a 'Bhattacharjee' I came across statements like "You were Mazumdar- so you got married to a brahmin?" I found myself offended at it and snapping back, "We are Brahmins too."

Then there was the eternal issue of belonging faced by every Indian woman- change of surname after marriage. Suddenly I was Bhattacharjee. A 24 year old habit was supposed to change overnight- a decision I took against my wish. Till date, after almost six years of my marriage, my kid brother frowns each time he sees Bhattacharjee attached to my name. His looks make me all the more conscious about "sense of belonging".

And finally- the epitome of this sense or non sense of belonging or rather lack of it- my stay in Kolkata- a city I disliked with all my might. My fate (or ill-fate?) dragged me to this city. I hoped to complete my graduation and then leave the blasted city for my higher education. But again fate had something else in its store. More I wanted to get rid of Kolkata, even more I got stuck. And what more, I myself decided to marry someone from this city closing all my doors of escape! So now I belong to a city where I do not belong to. I cannot like this city ever from heart and mind due to several reasons which are multiplying everyday.

I will definitely not want to go back to Telaiya, my hometown and am desperately insisting my parents to shift to, well again Kolkata, the nearest big city where they can get medical attention when required. My father shares same sentiment about the city and finds nothing good about it except cutlets and Mughlai paratha but has succumbed to our pressure. So in matter of years I’ll lose contact with the only city to which I could connect to, though to a very little extent.

So when it comes to the sense of belonging, I feel completely rootless. There is no place which I can call mine. I often think of Ghalib’s couplet-

Zahid-e-tang nazar ne mujhe qafir jana

Aur qafir yeh samajhta hai ki musalman hoon main.

How could I call a city my own which has always ridiculed me for hailing from Bihar or Jharkhand, turned down my eager sister’s repeated attempts to get through one college just because she came from a Hindi medium school or where my calm and quiet father was caught by some goon like taxi drivers? On the contrary, though the small unknown town Waukesha in Wisconsin of US did not welcome me with open arms yet I have no bitter memories of that place. I’ve enjoyed our very own Durga Puja most in that town. Yes, even more than Kolkata. Rather I feel out of place in the Kolkata crowd where I don’t know anyone while in that foreign town it used to be a small venue where everybody I knew gathered.

At this stage of my life, I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll settle in a new town, city or country and develop this sense afresh. So, NRI syndrome or no NRI syndrome, a place belongs to me if enjoy the life there, get peace of mind and can relate to. It can be USA, it can be Jhumri Telaiya. I can only long to belong but no sense of belonging can work for me- the rootless.

My New Entity- Without Thamma

Today is 7th of November 2010. My first day, without Thamma, has started. I looked into newspapers and TV channels with great interest but don't know what was I looking for.Did I expect the whole world to stop and mourn the demise of my most precious one- my grandma. Certainly, I didn't. She is no Barack Obama or Amitabh Bachchan! But indeed,she was my world. May be I didn't realize it while she was still there. But as the chances of her survival diminished I bled inside failed to imagine how am I going to carry on without her.For past two months, my day started with a call to my dad inquiring about her well being, what did she have for dinner last night, did she sleep well, can I talk to her now and all. This morning, physically like any other mornings,I found myself toying with my phone and wondering is there any need to call. My family back at home are busy with their endless chores and this call will interrupt that. I can't be there, all I can do is call them up and what? Ending up disturbing them! One person left and the world changed!

When I look back and think of any incident from my childhood, I see her-a small frail figure of barely 4'11"  in white saree with red, orange or blue border draped in ethnic Bengali style, a small vermillion dot on even smaller forehead. Contrary to her external fragile look, she had some powerful bearing that none of us- four of her grandchildren, son and daughter in law could dare to defy her. Rarely, we were not allowed to do certain things but none of us could question her or negotiate on her decision.

My Thamma was one lady, so different from others of her age. When other grandmoms spent time reading scriptures, she would read newspapers minutely, read literature and obviously magazines.We inherited our reading habit from her. It was my responsibility to read out recipes that we could prepare in our modest kitchen- that is the recipes that didn't require oven, beef, pork, or some ingredient that is difficult to obtain in a small town. We were three sisters and never once she said that at least one of her granddaughters should get married just because she is growing old.And she was the only person who didn't say so. Eventually, when we got married she never said that she wants to see her great grandchildren- again the only person on this whole world not to say a word on this intensely personal matter. Ever since I have seen her, she was conscious of her space and her world, and she respected ours.

I remember writing letters even before I got admission in school or my sister reciting Tagore's poems when she could barely speak. Books remained our primary charm of going to Kolkata where our relatives had a separate room for books or we could buy books from stores that kept fiction too, another facility that our small town lacked. I speak or write Bengali better than people ridiculing me for hailing from Bihar/Jharkhand- courtsey my Thamma.

Unlike the other ladies of her age, may be she was not the master of rare Bengali delicacies. Even if she was, I did not know because I always saw my mamma cooking the main course. But indeed, she was the master chef when it came to Payesh or lipsmacking snacks. We, the siblings, boasted that no one can cook payesh like her and she enjoyed basking in that glory. Sunday morning started with varieties of breakfast option. When there was nothing else to cook, the resort was luchi torkari. Else, Sunday morning meant special breakfasts- Alur chop (potato fritters), obviously without muri (rice crispies), singara, fuchka, alu paratha, sattu paratha and what not. Her personal favorite food item was alur chop or mutton curry and fried rice made by mamma. With her at helm, we even had  dimer devil (devilled egg),phulkopir shingara (samosa with cauliflower stuffing)or masala dosa from some vendor on van for our dinner. Something unimaginable for average Bengali family.

In my Std I, when I was told that people die when they grow old and I knew my Thamma was growing old because I could see silver threads in her hair, I shuddered at that thought. I even wept secretly and when the beans were spilled everybody laughed out aloud. Yes, that was more than 25 years ago. After a quarter of century, I was not a dumb to think that my Thamma is immortal and knew we all are waiting. With every call from my home I apprehended the news. Finally it came. And not to my astonishment, I broke down.

As a child, I had declared we are best of friends. But she didn't respond to her best friend in her last days. May be I could not prove myself as a good friend. I was not there in her hard times when she underwent a major surgery at 80, I could not be there when she had a cerebral and her left side was paralyzed. Its not that I had no complaints against her but now, when she is around there is an emptiness that has shrouded me completely, there is a void almost impregnable. No one is going to stand at the main gate anymore when we will come to home or leave, no one would bite the little finger of my left hand, no one will ask "do you have 'nirmali'"?No one can substitute that. My little one will never know what he missed.