India, Whose India?
Even after eleven years, you can still remember the smell. It hit me the moment I stepped off the plane, that pungent yet not unpleasant of aroma of incense, smoke and shit that pervades all corners of the subcontinent. The only thing that clings to you more is the dust, and after three days my lungs are clogged with it.
The last time I was here it was 1994; I was 19 years old. I have lost a decade since then, well, 10 years I filled with other things, and only now can I make reparations to India, my family and myself. But they seemed glad to see me at least.
Am I really Indian? No, of course not. But for my time in Shanghai I lived my whole life in the UK. Yet, strangely it seems that I am more Indian than my father, who was born in Delhi and unlike me speaks Bengali and Hindi. On the other hand he can no longer either haggle nor eat with his hands, two things that I have few problems with. Maybe he has become less Indian, or I less English.
Some things never change and others change forever. Over the next few weeks I'll do what I can to fill this space with my thoughts and impressions - what India has become and where it is going. Namaste for now.
