Here I am, sitting in this relatively uncrowded English train, cushioned seats enveloping me, silence overwhelming my senses, my beloved Walkman playing -- would you believe it? -- Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan. If my friends think I have lost it, no, I haven't. Sure, the closest I ever ventured to a Hindi song in my 25 years in Bombay was when it was forced upon me during my nights at Razzberry Rhinoceros. Sure I avoided speaking the language like the plague. Sure, I was caught up with the rest of the MTV generation in my quest to be Western. And yes, I dreamed of faraway shores... Yet, here I am enjoying delicious, sweet Hindi music! It's much more than music to my ears now. It's a message that digs deep into the recesses of my mind, dragging up memories, uncovering a craving I thought I had long quenched. All the time I lived in India, I have wondered about the many immigrants who made their way across the borders only to stick to their roots, to hang on to the culture they left behind. I thought them hypocrites. I thought them cowards. I thought them the very scum of earth. But sitting here in my very British train, something inside me takes great pleasure in crying, 'Ha! Who's a hypocrite now!' Why is it that we turn patriots when we move away from home? I am trying to find the answer. I believe -- and this comes from someone who didn't really know the words of the National Anthem -- that once an Indian, always an Indian. Britain to me spells comfort. Gone are those train journeys when I woke up to find my face wedged into someone's armpit. Dead are the times when I used to go to bed worrying about money. And no longer do I cry tears of anger at the sexually frustrated men that pervade our streets. Life, it seems, has become better. And then, from the silence I have lived in the last two years comes a feeling. It grows into a gigantic nausea, weighing me down. Can I ever be at ease again to speak my mind without having to be polite? Can I feel the compassion that overcame me every time I saw a story scrawled on someone's face? And what about laughing at the mullets and moustaches and the wannabe heroes? Tell me, will I ever find someone human enough, emotional enough to hold my hand and call me 'friend'? In this one moment, I've realised that in all my time in India, I loved my music because I never had enough of it. I loved breaking the rules because there were rules to be broken. I lived because life was a struggle. I hated Indian politics because it was an outright farce. But out of this farce grew my principles. It has hit me that I love India even though I have never really delved on it. That all the time I felt a misfit, I really belonged to a society of social misfits. I now know that it takes an Indian to leave India, to know what it's about. And now that I am away from my country, I crave it. Because the reality of it all is that unknown to me, I was a patriot from the day I was born. So call me a hypocrite. Tell me to come back to India, knowing fully well that I cannot return like the prodigal son. And while you scoff, and turn your noses up at me, let me return to my vision of Johnny Walker singing, Zara hat ke, zara bach ke, yeh hai bombay meri jaan. Let me return to my glimpses of India through my telly. Let me return to wearing my salwars and bindis in this weak Western world. But most of all, let me revel in being what I am -- a hypocrite. Bian Salins looks forward to her next visit home! Illustration: Dominic Xavier Tell us what you think of this diary
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