Where's My Overcoat?

Little India gets really insane on weekends. Every single Indian or person of Indian origin in Singapore decides to visit a temple or have Indian food or shop at an Indian store on a Saturday. I had prior warning, but I hadn't taken heed and was caught slightly unawares. Will take care to be outside the area at these times in the future.

Saw The Namesake with a friend today. The multiplexes are pretty much the same as in Delhi or Kolkata, except the audi that we saw the movie in was really small. I liked the movie, though I had known that I would before I went in, but the music is very inappropriate in places. The song Yeh Mera Deewanapan and the way it's been picturised is positively embarrassing.

A few months back I wouldn't have believed I would say this, but I miss Kolkata. I'll crib about the place once more from June probably, but an Indian city does provide a kind of familiarity that a foriegn place, even if one is living in a locality called Litle India, just can't. I can't decide completely if the facilities are worth living away, and I am not sure if I'll have the luxury to choose, at least in the early part of my career.

While watching the movie a memory from my childhood came back, something that I had thought about when I read the book too. I had read the book in a bus on my way to Jaipur from Delhi in August 2005. This memory is of my father crying. The only time I can recall seeing him cry, and it's not a sight a kid who thinks of his father as the epitome of everything strong should get to see. I was about six years old then. We had been a few months in Iraq, and my parents were still fairly young in their careers and money was not as conveniently available as it is now. In August 1988, one ordinary day I saw my mother rush back from school (she used to teach some senior classes) to our home a few metres away. I got momentarily worried but got back to my classwork. It was only when I returned for lunch that I saw my father sitting on the bed red-eyed. And I knew something was wrong.

My grandfather had passed away in India a couple of days back, and the way telephone connections used to be then, added to the fact that we were living in a fairly remote area on the Iraq-Syria border, ensured that by the time my father got the news he could only feel helpless. My father's brothers convinced him that there was not much practical sense in spending too much time or money flying back to India as my father couldn't really do much.

I know it's wrong to think about these things, but that day I decided that I would always be around for my parents. I can imagine how painful it must have been for my father. And that fear of not being around for my parents, or not having them around to experience any comforts that I earn, will keep me from going too far too long from them.