Khaleej Times (Life) / 23 August 2013
Like many Indian expats in the Gulf, I am pushing the last days of a rain soaked vacation in India. It is strange that vacations have such short life spans, no matter how many days you fluff them up with. They pass like a fleeting dream sequence, leaving us in a willingly suspended state of disbelief till we flock back to pick up our rants and routines.
Year after year, for a month or two, we fall into the rabbit hole of our native place, shrinking or growing in size to fit the contrasting conditions there, sometimes with groans, sometimes with cheer. Life assumes a different character and dons a curious cloak in the wonderland of our birth, and the starkness of the change that comes over us when we straddle the two worlds never ceases to amuse me. Wasn’t it just the other day that I took off from the scalding summer sands and dipped into a verdant landscape awash in relentless monsoon? The welcome drizzle, the puddles around my feet and the constant feel of rain in the air, the potholes in the roads and the frenzied traffic ushered in vintage memories as we steered on. The buzzing mosquitoes, eager to taste the perfume laced NRI blood confirmed that we were truly home. The pustules on our skin were the first welcome gifts we received. Cold, cough and allergies would follow suit, we knew. Those weak in their stomach would have more to anticipate.
It feels immensely good to sleep in a room with a view, with windows thrown open to nature and the monsoon chill let in. I wish I could take a slice of these tranquil nights into the cloistered coops that we call bedrooms in Dubai. You don’t need a morning alarm here, for the roosters and crows are committed to their tasks. So are the blaring speakers from the local temples. Stepping out of home, you get chatty with neighbours, nod and wave to acquaintances from a distance. It makes you think about the isolated existence back there, where neighbours are tight lipped strangers behind closed doors, or at best, half smiling, semi-familiar co passengers in the elevator. There is something that alters in us when we touch foreign shores and adopt outlandish ways.
I precisely know what is cooking in the neighbourhood in my home town, for conversations are rarely private. The dropping mobile signals inside homes make sure that people hold public telecons about personal matters, and it barely troubles them to know that they are being heard. It saves the curious cats around the area the trouble of snooping and eaves dropping. Gossip and gawking are socially accepted norms here that require no cover of pretence.
Self grooming takes a back seat when I am on vacation. It doesn’t matter if my hair is not blow dried or if my nails aren’t manicured. What I wear matters even less. I don’t search for the right costumes or worry about the wrinkles in a freshly laundered shirt. The romping lizards on the wall don’t freak me out, nor do the night insects that flit in only to become the lizards’ meal. I bashfully think of the ruckus I created on spotting a lizard in our Dubai home some months ago. I fail to fathom the reason behind my altered response to an identical situation back here. I give hygiene reasons for buying mineral water in Dubai, while I have little qualms in boiling tap water to drink while I am in my parents’ home.
Once in a year, we shift from a milieu of work and worries, and slip into a fairy tale setting. Along with our wrist watch, we reset ourselves to the changed environs. Like little children, we play pretend games and create make believe worlds, and like them, we fail to separate and recognise the truth from fantasy.
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