Today I was thinking about South India and how much I miss that place. I have such wonderful associations with the entire region, be it its natural beauty or its people: it feels much more like home than QuaintTown ever could.
There are countless wonderful memories attached to South India and one city in particular: one city I shall aways love. Come May this year and it will be five long years that I have set eyes on this place. It seems a lifetime ago that we moved from there, and I am filled with so much regret. I left wonderful friends there. A wonderful life. Wonderful opportunities. We had our reasons to leave and they seemed like good and right reasons at the time. And though I know it is wrong to do so I cannot stop thinking sometimes how my life in India would be dramatically different if only we had stayed back there.
The truth is that I faced tremendous adjustment problems when we moved away. I had only ever known South India, and moving away was like moving to another country. Different people. Different language. Different food. Different culture. How could it be the same country I had agreed to live in?
It was not the same country and I am not sure I am truly reconciled with this new place. We have been moving a lot. A period of great restlessness followed. And everything ever since feels like a compromise.
I have been thinking about going back to South India just for a visit, but I know a lot has changed and somehow I think I should just keep the memory unadulterated. Unspoilt. Nostalgic.
Mr. QuaintHeart does not like it when I refer to any of this. That does not surprise me. Not only did he have to bear the brunt of my complaints (and they are many), but is also the one who has benefited the most from our frequent moves. And he is not unsettled by moving places. This is how he grew up. In fact, this is the way most Indians of my acquaintance have grown up: always packing and unpacking, shifting base. Nobody has roots. They are like huge Banyan Trees. They just grow new roots wherever they are.
I am a creaky old Sycamore Maple. You can't move me.
...which is a ridiculous statement, considering that I moved to India and had no trouble doing so as long as I stayed in my beloved South India. But then again most of this post seems somewhat ridiculous, and I believe I should top it off with some good syrupy nonsense in the end:
I think it's time for a holiday. The southernmost I've gone in five years is Goa, and that's not nearly South enough.
I'll probably start lobbying for a holiday when Mr. QuaintHeart comes home tonight. Maybe we can go to Cochin. Last time I was there it was flooded and pretty and touristy and it smelled of Jasmine and fish. Or maybe Kovalam, though I heard it has not turned out for the better. Or maybe right down to Kanyakumari. This year it will be a decade that I've been there, and that sounds almost meaningful.
There are countless wonderful memories attached to South India and one city in particular: one city I shall aways love. Come May this year and it will be five long years that I have set eyes on this place. It seems a lifetime ago that we moved from there, and I am filled with so much regret. I left wonderful friends there. A wonderful life. Wonderful opportunities. We had our reasons to leave and they seemed like good and right reasons at the time. And though I know it is wrong to do so I cannot stop thinking sometimes how my life in India would be dramatically different if only we had stayed back there.
The truth is that I faced tremendous adjustment problems when we moved away. I had only ever known South India, and moving away was like moving to another country. Different people. Different language. Different food. Different culture. How could it be the same country I had agreed to live in?
It was not the same country and I am not sure I am truly reconciled with this new place. We have been moving a lot. A period of great restlessness followed. And everything ever since feels like a compromise.
I have been thinking about going back to South India just for a visit, but I know a lot has changed and somehow I think I should just keep the memory unadulterated. Unspoilt. Nostalgic.
Mr. QuaintHeart does not like it when I refer to any of this. That does not surprise me. Not only did he have to bear the brunt of my complaints (and they are many), but is also the one who has benefited the most from our frequent moves. And he is not unsettled by moving places. This is how he grew up. In fact, this is the way most Indians of my acquaintance have grown up: always packing and unpacking, shifting base. Nobody has roots. They are like huge Banyan Trees. They just grow new roots wherever they are.
I am a creaky old Sycamore Maple. You can't move me.
...which is a ridiculous statement, considering that I moved to India and had no trouble doing so as long as I stayed in my beloved South India. But then again most of this post seems somewhat ridiculous, and I believe I should top it off with some good syrupy nonsense in the end:
I think it's time for a holiday. The southernmost I've gone in five years is Goa, and that's not nearly South enough.
Let Bygones be Bygones?
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