One question that I’ve never been able to answer is “Where are you from?”.
To most people, it might sound simple. For me, though, the answer has always been complicated.
I was born in Kishangarh, Rajasthan, just an hour away from our “beloved” MUJ. Much like my personality, my birth was chaotic. My father was away in another city, while my Mama and Mami rushed my mother to a hospital that looked as though it was standing on hope alone. In the flurry of paperwork, my Mama managed to misspell my name and even used my mother’s maiden name on my birth certificate. Thankfully, it’s written in sloppy Devnagari, so immigration officers usually just ask me to write it down on a slip of paper.
I lived in Rajasthan until the age of six, before my family moved to Assam. But it felt as though I hadn’t just changed states but entire worlds: one day deserts surrounded me, the next I was growing up amidst rainforests. Yet my heart cannot pick between the two. To choose would be like asking Krishna whether he loved Devaki or Yashomati more; one gave birth, while the other nurtured.
Rajasthan
If I’m being completely honest, I don’t remember much about my time in Rajasthan. I was a very shy kid growing up, so I didn’t have many friends to miss when we moved to Assam. The one I did have, my sister, moved with me.
My connection to Rajasthan has always been more cultural than geographical. My big joint family in Assam has recreated a little Rajasthan within our home. From cooking traditional Rajasthani dishes to celebrating Teej, Gangaur, and Sheetla Ashtami, it’s as if we never left Rajasthan. In many ways, I carry that part of Rajasthan with me wherever I go. So, at times when I say I miss home, it’s not Assam; it’s the Rajasthan living inside the four walls of my home.
I miss the Kair Sangri, I miss missi roti with gatte ki sabzi, I miss the intricate setup of earthen pots, Tulsi plants, and doob grass on Gangaur. I miss the traditional red chunri and the gigantic nath my mom wears on Gangaur. I even miss the Gangaur song I secretly love but would never admit to my mom.
So, in a way, I am as Rajasthani as it gets.
Assam
When I meet someone who says they are from Assam or they know someone from Assam, I am always sceptical about whether they totally get where I’m from. The thing is, most of those people are from Lower Assam, the Guwahati city people. And I’m from Upper Assam, that too, a very small town called “Naharkatia” that sits on the edge of a rainforest. It’s nearly 500 kilometres away from Guwahati; in fact, I live much closer to Arunachal, which I believe is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been to, and I’ve been to a lot of places.
The best part about Arunachal is that you need an inner line permit to visit; that and the combination of strict regulations, wary locals, and the occasional insurgent activity keep tourists at bay. There, you can wander valleys that feel like Peru and mountains that feel like Switzerland and not see a single other soul, not even a Maggi stall. How many Indians could claim to have eaten a home-packed lunch while sitting by a rocky riverbank with only their family and no other tourists in sight?
So yeah, we had the perfect weekend getaway.
One of the recurring themes in my friend Aahana‘s articles is her missing Mumbai. And I could never just wrap my head around it. I’ve been to Mumbai once, and it just made me love Naharkatia more.
What’s there to miss? Those local trains where people would throw their children at each other to get in, as if there isn’t one coming up in 5 minutes? Or the Marine Drive, which they glamorise in Bollywood as the ultimate deep talk spot, but in reality, you can barely hear your own thoughts. Or the walk along Juhu Beach where you can’t take a step without running into a corncob.
But I guess with enough love, these inconveniences somehow feel better?
Or I guess I’m just a small-town boy.
Cities never sleep, so the lights are always on. I pity the people who don’t realise that those lights steal the darkness of their night, how moonlight falls on your skin, and how bright the stars really are.
So now, I find myself missing Assam: its weekly rainfall, its endless tea gardens, the glow of fireflies, the wild winds of the mythic bordoisila, and the darkest night skies.
When my flight enters Assam’s airspace, I look out the window to see the vast, strong, current-filled, ever-flowing Brahmaputra glimmering with sunshine. It’s as if the river’s welcoming me; my shoulders relax, my eyes sparkle, and my heart fills up with awe.
Assam, Rajasthan. whatever you want to call it.
I just know I’m home.
I’m counting down the days
With my suitcase packed
All my built-up saudade could hardly fit
I can see the garden from the blue
Just behind the wing
Mom, look out the window, I’m coming home
Deslocado, Napa
For more such homesick articles, look out on Her Campus at MUJ.