Feeling for roots

For those who know me, the rant I go off on about being "displaced" is not a new one. I went through a period of putting down roots in this great and free land and somehow these past few years, those tentative spreads to "settling down" seem to have badly failed. So now I am in the "when can I return" phase of the life of an immigrant. Into this equation is a new variable: D-Poo. She's of course an ABCD (American born confused desi for those of my audience who STILL don't know it)who says: "schooal" and "yennai," has never been to a temple and has no concept of eating "kaamam" at all. Has never had dosai/idli for breakfast and wouldn't miss it. But somehow I want her to. I have long held dear the claim to myself and all and sundry that a new land when adopted has to be in all its glory: dating for all and meat in the lunchroom even for Tam-brahms and white boys to marry. I have freely mocked the old fuddy-duddies for trying to transplant "tradition" (translate: Sanskrit classes, mandatory classical music and temple visits galore) for kids whose tradition is mostly Thanksgiving turkey, Halloween and associated sales at the stores. And as transatlantic voyages became commoner and globalization a household word, so too became an essential part of being a dutiful ABCD (and the parents of said ABCD): the stay in India to imbibe and assimilate.
Well, I think the whole eating humble pie analogy comes to mind as we prepare for our maiden trip to India since D-Poo ceased to be a baby and became a human being. Here I am thrilled to bits that D-Poo will see her first temple, listen to random music blaring throughout the day, travel in autorickshaws, and buses and trains and will hopefully get dirty and muddy and try to catch the crows and the stray dogs with me chasing after her!!! I am glad she will see women in sarees and salwars and bindis galore. I love that she will have uncles, aunts, grandparents, neighbours and assorted "uncles" and "aunties" fussing over her and commenting and clucking and generally being themselves. But why should it matter so much? After all, that is really not her life. Her life is her group of three rather grimy friends in day care whom she never sees outside of those four walls, the supermarket made up of aisles she can pelt along full tilt, and the car seat. And us in our lonely glory, her only connection to India. A fragile human thread to link her to our past and our life. A life we want her to know if not to appreciate. A life where we felt we were in command of what happened. A life that in retrospect seems simple and importantly happy. A life where the only thing missing was her. And so we want her to see, to feel, to live as we lived.
It reminds me of stories my dad would tell us: of stealing mangoes, poking fun at teachers, getting beaten when caught and endless cricket games. Punctuated with anecdotes of food. We laughed at him then, bored 15-year olds humoring him with feigned interest in a story we had heard millions of times. And yet, I can see it now. Why it was important to him we see his life as he knew it. Simple. Happy. And we will be doing the same, a generation down. Even if only briefly. Maybe when she gets older she will understand why.