Two years is the longest I’ve been away from Bangalore. Two years is a long time to spend romanticizing and reminiscing, steeped in nostalgia. It turns out, two years is also long enough to feel like a visitor in a place I still call home.
When I returned to Bangalore after so long this December, it was an emotional trip for many reasons. It was the first time I was “home” since I graduated college. The first time since I started a full time job. The first time since my grandfather passed away. The first time since my best friend got married.1
The first time I carried around two phones. The first time I chose to drink bottled water instead of tap, the first time the rikshaw drivers spoke to me in English instead of Kannada. The first time I actually felt like I belonged elsewhere.
The first few days on my trip, I found myself looking for a notebook to write my feelings down in. I’ve never had the urge to do that before. While I still don’t have my thoughts well articulated, I have a few assorted notes I want to jot down before I forget. Perhaps I’ll revisit this post and find what I was trying to say, or just leave them be in this weird liminal state between thoughts, feeling and words.
I realized that I’ll never really have a vacation after this, unless I’m between jobs. Granted, a lot of it is due to my workaholic tendencies.
The city has this weird juxtaposition of brand new tech start ups and modern billionaire bungalows with old, run down tea stalls and cows roaming freely on the streets. This feeling of new and old is everywhere. It’s intertwined with the entire city’s ethos. The way things work is so new, exciting, old and traditional at the same time – I can’t quite articulate the feeling. But that’s all of India for you.
Speaking of, my mum had this really astute observation:
“Where tech flows, culture follows.”
Bangalore is India’s Silicon Valley. My parents moved over back in the 90s, during the tech boom. But with years to follow, the start ups brought in engineers from all over India. Then, people looking for an escape from their software jobs ran to dance, music and the arts. And so my city, I’m sure like several others, has so much to offer culturally.
I can’t stop thinking about her words.
Being in Bangalore is a scary reminder of my privilege. I spend so much time in New York antagonizing money and glorifying capitalism. I spend so much time talking about how I’m a minority here, and how things can sometimes be difficult. I spend so much time wanting more. It’s easy to forget how much we actually have, how well off we are, and how easy things are. My problems really seem first-world in a third-world country. Being in Bangalore is also a reminder of all the gratitude I have.
I realized that I’m bound to be in two places at once. For the longest time, I had one foot out of New York and one in Bangalore. With every passing year, I slowly found my people and places.
I had never felt this much excitement to return to New York, to my routine, to my people2. At the same time, I had never felt this much sadness and fear to leave Bangalore.
There’s something about being from a place that will always make it home. No matter how much things change, it will always be the place you grew up in. And it will always be waiting for you.
No matter how much of a visitor, foreigner or outlander I feel, I will always be Bangalorean just by virtue of having spent the first 17 years of my life here.
I learnt that I care too much of what my family thinks, especially my parents. I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing. In fact, I’ve always valued what they think more than my own opinions. I’ve never really rebelled3 or gone against their wishes – because they’re really the progressive Indian parents every kid hopes to have. As hard as it is, I’m slowly learning to be my own person too, and that they can be wrong every now and then4.
I’ll have too many tattoos, too many dietary restrictions or too much of an accent when I’m in India. And I’ll probably have too much Bollywood in my playlists, too much nostalgia and too much of an accent when I’m in America. But that’s probably what it means to be a non-immigrant, right?