Another weekend goes by! My flat meticulously cleaned, plants
watered, clothes rolled up and newspaper nicely folded, with all oped and
editorial sections read thoroughly, important points highlighted in fluorescent
orange marker. Smell of a tempting new book, light breeze through my balcony door
and utter silence around me. There are no rains, but tea is in regular supply. The
last three days workshop has made me mentally bankrupt. I am still trying to
recollect what was new in the annual parade of discussions? I curse myself for
being direct, sometimes indirect but am convinced of the utter wastage of my
energies.
“Our Moon has Blood clots” makes a difficult weekend reading
especially when I am looking for something more light to get
rid of the dizziness that had set it. But,
I do not resist it, treading through every page that tells a story not heard
very often. A book that reminds me of another side to every coin, which we very
conveniently forget to turn. How can human beings be capable of such violence is
something that I will always fail to understand. The reading definitely makes
me think about the need for belonging to a territory, identify and being among
group of people whom we call family, friends and relatives. From a combination
of these things, we derive out identity and make memories. Brutal uprooting of people
from this so called familiar territory, their own little world can cause mental
trauma that is devastating. Being a “refugee” has its own toll and we as a
nation haven’t developed the empathy to understand and relate to this.
My thoughts wander to my own identify. I have lived in four
States in the last twelve years. ‘Familiarity’ is different from ‘Belonging’.
In a place, that I come back home every day, I can sense familiarity, but it
does not allow my roots to grow deeper and stronger. It allows me four inch top
soil to survive, but does not hold me on forever. What does it actually mean to
belong, to be so strongly tied to the roots?
