Places have changed around me, vegetation patterns have
varied, the traffic has become busier, noisier or lighter and quieter, the
markets I visit have gotten distant and fancier or welcoming with the smell of
the Earth, the names of the people I want to call friends have changed.
As I make this well vested effort to deep-diving self-
introspection while “Leaving on a jet plane”, I only have to shut my eye lids
to see my father, anxious yet happy, bravely proud while letting the fear of his
little daughter cross boundaries go – boundaries of the city, of the country,
of everything she had known all her life, until this day that she chose to fly
across oceans of dreams and aspirations. That “little girl”, yes that’s me, can
still hear those same words that father told me 5 years back every time I leave
for a new journey – “Be safe, be careful and stay well”.
In due course of time, the little girl has grown; at least I
hope she has, into an acceptable human being. I would always fight my parents
for stopping me from venturing into the world, I always complained for their
being overprotective of me and now, the reality is, I have only become
overprotective of myself. No, not in the fear of a “harmful” world, but in the
fear of constraining myself to the known rights, the familiar wrongs, the
recognizable expressions of love and hatred, the well-advertised faiths and beliefs. I bow down before the Almighty each day so may
I learn all the ways in which I can say “I am here for you” for anyone who
might need me, may my eyes be open and my heart continue to beat to bring little
joys to the lovely people I meet.
It is only natural as human beings to belong to a “Culture”,
and to me my culture is no more than a habit, the habit of having rice in a
certain way, of drinking tea in a cup and not a mug, the habit of being coerced
to have Payesh on birthdays, the
habit of running up the stairs to terrace and rescue the Kite lost by some
proud owner, the habit of getting drenched on the first day of monsoon, the
habit of licking fingers everytime Maa made Murighonto,
the habit of lighting incense sticks in my Recollection room every evening …And
such habits I fear envelope us in such tight seal to often silently suffocate
us.
While it is the right thing to uphold one’s culture, it is only
more right to accept another!
Maa unfortunately does not get the chance to make Murighonto for me so often nowadays, but
I do lick up the hot sauce from the aptly named “Nuclear” chicken wings; while
I could not give up the serene essence of sandalwood incense sticks, I do seek
warmth from cinnamon candle lights every
time I pray; cheesecakes have been replacing Payesh on birthdays; the romance of monsoon will get a good fight
from the first day of snow on a clear night; there is no Monkey paint draped on
Holi but there is the craziness and creepynss of Halloween; there are no hidden
diaries but there is a secret blog; there has been no Chaitra Sale for me for the last five years, but there has been
Black Fridays and a dozens of more days to celebrate and share joy. Being a
Bengali, being an Indian is as much my habit as is being an American. If I see
raised eyebrows at this the least do I care – I will not give up any reason
that multiplies my days to celebrate, my culture is not limited by the
boundaries of my birthplace but is only expanded by my actions each moment of
every day. I am thankful to my father for letting me take that first flight so
I can protect myself in the flights from cocoon to fire the rest of my life!
