This was not the homecoming I had imagined. Travelling halfway around the world, I was looking forward to my usual routine: after the "arrived safely" domestic and international phone calls, a gloriously hot, hot shower... then, half-asleep, stumble to the bed and collapse, dead to the world for the next 12 to 16 hours. What I did not expect was to see my bathroom in a shambles, its contents in my bedroom. I found my bathroom door propped up against a wall in the living room. Smaller pieces of furniture had been moved around. And that was when I noticed the dirt on the floor and on my not-so-cheap-so-don't-walk-on-it Berber rug! What the hell had happened in my apartment while I was gone? I did have an idea. I had asked the management to use the six weeks I was away to change out or resurface the sink and bathtub. That was in October. From the looks of it, they had waited till the last minute to start the work and then left it midway... an electric drill in the bedroom, knickknacks knocked to the floor, bits of plaster here and there. The more I looked, the more I felt fury rising inside me despite my fatigue. The repair guy on the other end of the phone felt it too. He couldn't come over right away, he said, but all I had to do was call him when I woke up the next day and he'd be here in a flash. I was fading fast and no longer had the energy to argue. I'd started from India five days earlier and although the stopover to visit friends (and shop) in Singapore was fantastic, the last 18 hours had just about done me in. Grime, grit, dust or not, it was time to shower and sleep. The next morning the workman said I seemed to be in a much better mood. I told him 12 solid hours of sleep had helped, but now I had exactly another 12 hours to get my life back to normal before I returned to work. So, maybe he could get to work too? The apartment somewhat back to its original shape, I did two loads of laundry and went out to get groceries. Nothing looks appealing in sterile American food stores after the wonderful colours of Indian sabzi mandis or fruit stalls. Roasted chicken under a lamp doesn't compare to the sight and aroma of freshly fried pakoras. But, I needed some staples and sent up a silent 'thank you' when I reached the freezer section. Frozen food zindabad! I wasn't quite hungry yet, but I knew some hours later I'd be glad the microwave oven didn't require anything but the ability to push buttons. That is, if I made it back to my kitchen. For weeks I'd let others do the driving and I didn't need to carry little things like house keys, so I guess I should have known I was ripe for something stupid. As if I hadn't had enough homecoming thrills already, I forgot that my apartment building doors self-lock! So there I was, frozen foodstuff thawing in the car, the apartment manager away at lunch for the next 35 minutes, a holiday weekend when most tenants were out of town (judging from the pile of uncollected newspapers at the front door), and me wishing I'd grabbed a jacket before going to the store. Help! That's what I said when I saw the residents of a neighbouring building head my way. They called the emergency maintenance number and soon I was back in my warm apartment. I had picked up a cafe latte at the store (not trusting myself to make tea in this jet-lagged state) and now it needed re-heating in the microwave. Yes, pushing buttons is easy enough but getting the cup into the oven without knocking it over helps also. Watching the contents spill from the microwave onto the kitchen counter, I decided that I had better stick to things I knew how to do with my eyes closed. I opened a can of Coke and logged on to my email account. Then, fortified with caffeine I started to unpack. I know some people who leave their suitcases packed or semi-packed for weeks after coming back from India. Not me. It all has to get dumped out as soon as possible so I can survey the damage. Not bad, I thought. The pottery from Mussoorie was intact, as were the terra-cotta figures from The Bombay Store. The paperbacks looked as good as new and the gazillion CDs and cassettes were still in their cases. Best of all, the cashew fenny from Goa and the small bottle of Old Monk (it's a sentimental thing) hadn't spilled all over my new clothes. It's somewhat anticlimactic; hours of folding, squishing, wrapping and packing and then, in just a few minutes, it's spread out like some sort of shrine. The piles will stay there for a few days, maybe even weeks. Kind of like how some people live out of their suitcases after a trip. It's not that I'm too lazy to put things in their place nor is it because I haven't a clue where this latest installment of books and music is going to go. No, as long as the stuff is out for me to see, I can almost imagine I'm still there, in India. Almost. I was about to write that it makes me feel like I'm still 'back home'. Those words tend to roll of the tongue naturally. Technically speaking, as some would be quick to point out, I was born and raised in the US, so how can India be my home? But, when the gentleman sitting next to me on the flight back asked if San Francisco was 'home' for me, I didn't know how to answer. He looked puzzled as I struggled to reply so I chose to tell him the truth, "I live in the Bay Area." I wasn't sure then, nor am I still, that this is 'home'. Home. I look around my place and it's all comfortably familiar. So was driving to work today -- the feel of my car, the roads, even the same parking spot was free after all these weeks. It's like riding a bike or a horse; they say you can't forget how, no matter how long it's been between rides. That's what living here feels like to me. It's as comfortable as my own skin. I don't think about it, it's as if I'm on autopilot. But, India can be like that also, for the most part. I still marvel at all the changes there, particularly in the last decade. And while each trip brings new experiences and challenges, it still feels like coming home when I get off the plane. Like nowhere else does. And in India, no place feels more like home than my mother's house, a sprawling bungalow that now seems to have more naukars and chaprasis living in it than family. After roaming around for three weeks to my many homes in India, those of my aunts, uncles and cousins, I told my mother, after all these years, all the changes, this is the one house that still, that always, feels like home. She said it was because we could spread out here -- stake out our own "space", just like we had done each of the summers we spent there. I think she's right. Whether I stay there two days or two months, I mark out my territory within minutes of arriving -- my room, my bed, my table, my space on the shelf in the bathroom, the line I'll hang my clothes on to dry, the chair on the verandah where I'll sit in the sun (what's a holiday without a little sunbathing?). I can do all this without stepping on anyone's toes or having to ask anyone's permission. A place I can call my own must be home, right? Six months from now this confusion will disappear. Life here will take over and India will be like a dream, a dream of a holiday. But for now, in the coming weeks, the piles on my floor, the songs I listen to, even the snacks I eat will make me feel hopelessly homesick. Things haven't changed all that much here in the valley since I left. Home prices have risen to even more obscene levels, I still don't know who will be the next president of the US and Kanwal Rekhi adorns the cover of the magazine section of the Sunday San Jose Mercury News. H1Bs and wannabe-billionaire desis in the news, so what else is new? I dunno. Call me crazy, but I'll take working for an MNC or a dotcom in Bombay over San Jose any day. And that's not just fatigue or homesickness speaking. It's six weeks of travelling around to see family and friends plus 15 previous trips to India talking. It's also the fact that I spent almost two hours at the airport trying to get through US customs and immigration. "Welcome home US citizens!" Indira Gandhi International Airport has SFO beat by about 1 hour and 20 minutes. What's this place got that India doesn't, huh? Okay, okay, so maybe I am pushing it just a little. I can't help it. As I look at the contents of my two suitcases spread out all over my living room, what can I say? I suppose I am home, but like the song goes, dil hai ki maanta nahin. A steaming cup of real Indian chai, Haldiram's aloo bhujiya, Alai Payuthey and Mohabbatein on the CD player... Yeah, now I'm really back home. Reeta Sinha is still sleeping it off... more to come when she wakes up. Tell us what you think of this diary
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