Four days into my trip to India, I had to sadly admit to myself that I had come to no conclusions or understanding about myself or my identity as an Indian who is now a resident of America. In the elevator in my way up to a “wi-fi” cafe, on the third floor of a fancy albeit gaudy leather boutique, I would sip a sweet lime soda, blog in my diary while the temperature close to a hundred degrees F beats against the frosted glass. For three days now, Paro almost eleven months old has a fever- heat exhaustion. She spends most of her day in an air-conditioned room as does the rest of the family. I make quick dashes into the open world and rush back with equal alacrity. I am under assault- sounds, smells, smokes, light, dust, colors. I am drained. I am home.
I came to Pondicherry, now called Puducherry, when I was eleven years old. I try and come back atleast once a year. One can never go home but one can make a home in different places of the world and move from one to the other. I hope to give my girls the open spaces of mind and heart that come from seeing the world as one that is whole. In the process I hope to be able to keep my heart and mind open to all that was and could be.