A gnawing sense of displacement

That old restless feeling of displacement, the bane of our diasporic existence, has been eating at me again. Especially fierce over the past few days since losing my mother-in-law in her home half a world away. Its a familiar feeling, this discombobulation about my physical vs. emotional geography, one that is all too often a topic of emotionally charged conversation among my immigrant friends, especially those who, like me, have chosen to make a living on distant shores.

This particular anguish stemming from personal loss is also one I've lived through five years ago when that dreaded phone tolled for me, alerting me to my father's sudden demise. It is an anguish captured well in Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake, a story that resonates deeply with my wife's ambivalent feelings about being stuck here, in part because of my career which has floated along while hers faltered amid the rapids of parenthood and trailing-spousehood in an academic culture not entirely supportive of dual careers. Each of our responses to this displacement are also vastly divergent at times, stemming from our rather different family histories. I come from several generations of dispersers: my great-grandfather, both grandfathers, my father, and I, have all moved away from our natal grounds, taking progressively larger steps away from "home". This is something that has fascinated me, and I may yet write more about it some day. Kaberi's folks, meanwhile, are much more rooted, with a much fiercer tie to a specific patch of land. That strong attachment deriving in part from having been forced to move from Bangladesh when their former country was split asunder violently at the birthing of our modern nations. Kaberi is the first real voluntary disperser in her clan, and its a tough call for her, especially at times like this, to shoulder the enormous guilt of having "abandoned" her family.

More on that, perhaps, when I can gather my thoughts and be more coherent. For now, I wanted to share a couple of other pieces. My friend Arvind (whom I am yet to meet in the flesh!) shared, on his Facebook wall, a wonderful essay by the Iranian American writer Elizabeth Eslami, on the meaning of place, and connection with humanity, for writers:

Lately I’ve been thinking about how important having a “place” is. Whether you can move away and take that place with you. And whether “placeness” is even real. If you ask me where my place is, without hesitation I will tell you it is Montana. My husband jokes that when someone meets me for the first time, within five minutes they will know how much of my life was, and is, centered on our four years living there. When I’m feeling especially romantic about it, I am certain I will be writing about Montana for the rest of my life, even though my Montana is not necessarily the same as a hunter’s Montana, or a developer’s Montana, or an equestrian’s Montana. Of course, the bitterroot doesn’t care about such trivial distinctions.

Can there be one place for a person, or many? I want to go to Iran, and Morocco, and I want to return to South Africa and find my way back into the mess of people and puff adders, so maybe those are my places too. How will I know?

Elizabeth's evocative essay has reminded me of a poem I wrote, nearly two decades ago, to capture the first time I felt a sense of connection with this alien soil in California. I wrote this one evening after having been in this country for several months, and remember it causing some consternation among my Indian friends (and family) because it seemed to suggest a certain emotional betrayal. That I had somehow given up on my "real home" back in India! And some of them are yet to forgive me for this crime.

I share this evidence of my betrayal with you now, when I have just reached the 20-year mark as an immigrant here, and welcome your response:

Homecoming in California
Stepping out of the Supermarket
In a hi-tech California mall,
I turned a corner
And stood still, momentarily.
Rapt, watching the deep evening sky,
And the luminous clouds
In the Sun's farewell glow.
The mall dropped away,
Along with the tall glass buildings
And the high-speed roads.
There remained the vast sky,
The Earth under my feet,
The fresh soil of the vacant lot,
The few palm trees,
A light wind,
And the Sun round the horizon.
And I felt I had come home.
Momentarily.
- Madhusudan
8 oct 1990

7 September 2010
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