Finding Home

I moved to Canada about 2 years ago. The world around and within me changed. Now, this realization wasn’t instantaneous. Definitely not the very moment I stepped my feet on this land. This realization came in moments big and small, bright and dull and through landscapes and people, culture and food. So, while I embraced the newness of this country, and my life in it, there were moments when I missed home. The feeling of it. Still do.

I grew up with my Aunt around. She was pursuing her masters in food & nutrition while I was growing up. The days she had her exams and practicals, were specifically the happiest days for me. Because there would be recipes invented, food shared and I got to be the guinea pig by being her taster. The joy that I got being the first one to taste a dish created for the very first time ?on this planet? was unmatched. I as a little girl sort of took pride in it. It was like my little power that most of my friends didn’t have. 

There was this particular evening when my Aunt was preparing for her exam the next day and she baked this homestyle banana walnut cake by combining some of the signature ingredients. Now you’d probably think, what possibly would be signature other than bananas and walnuts. As a grown up adult, I’d think so too. But as that 8 year old, those were just some magical, signature ingredients going in the bowl, being whipped together and put to be baked in the oven. Irrespective of whatever day of the week it was, it surely felt like a Sunday. The hot, perfectly brown cake was brought out and the aroma filled our entire house. I remember taking the first bite and learning how cakes are supposed to taste. My 8 year old self jumped around the kitchen having tasted the best cake ever. 

Days passed since that evening. I grew up, shifted cities, met new people, fell in love, tasted more food, fell out of love, cooked, travelled, ate more food. Life was good. Because I knew I could any day take a flight back home and have that special cake. Not until I had a one-way ticket to Canada in my hand. So, when I was boarding my flight, having my life packed in suitcases and the melodramatic song playing in my head, I thought to myself- Aman, you may get a lot of things in Canada but you’re also leaving behind a lot. 

Even though I kept reminding myself that there are far better things ahead than any I’d leave behind, I didn’t believe in it until this evening, just a month ago. My social media was bombarded with the new frenzy gripping the world during times of Covid-19. Yeah, you guessed it, right. Banana bread. I called up my Aunt and begged and bullied her into sharing her secret family recipe. I read through it and thought to myself- ‘Wow! It definitely is more than just bananas and walnuts.’ I got the ingredients, started whipping them together, praying and hoping for it to turn good. I put the mixture in a dish and put it in my oven for 30 mins. The oven beep went off, but the aroma signalled this to me much before that. I was ready for some time travel. My tiny condo smelled EXACTLY the same as my house did. Years ago. I took the cake out of the oven, sliced it into pieces, took the first bite and I broke into that happy dance I did as an 8-year old. Not only did I revisit my childhood, but I finally got the glimpse of how home felt like in Canada.

Quarantine Living

It's a confusing time to be alive. While my mind is still adjusting to the new normal and living in times of Covid, I leaned back on some of my constants. Performed at Calgary Story Slam this evening. Virtually. It was special for reasons more than one.  Calgary Story Slam turned 8. When Jilliane said so, it was a moment of epiphany. It was like.. 8 years ago, if I had a wish to have performed and have people witness me, this was it coming to fruition. Secondly, the story I shared is very close to my heart. I'll share the draft. What isn't however mentioned here is the sleepless nights I spent while writing this one or the presence of someone special I felt as I narrated it. Here it is:

"While everyone around the globe is learning the new way of life, this quarantine living takes me down a memory lane. Wait, did we even have another pandemic in our lifetime? No. But there was a time in my life when I was quarantined for a month. Made to restrict to the four walls of my room. It was the month of May. Last year. A hot water bottle burst on me and I got 2nd degree burns on my leg and stomach. At the expense of getting explicit, I could not let any piece of clothing touch the area that had got burns, had to bandage 3 times a day, couldn’t walk, wasn’t even familiar with the healthcare system of Canada and was alone. I was at my lowest. Conversations, counseling and self-care? I tried it all. Nothing helped. I felt lifeless, joyless and lonely.

Even though all of this sounds and was way more awful, no doubt about it, I think it had a purpose.

So what do you do when you are alone and physically restrained to move around, you compensate by making my mind run instead. I thought, I over thought and thought some more. Amidst all of them, there was one particular chain of thought that disturbed me, shook me, made me weep. Before I share that with all of you, let me introduce you to my grandma, my Nani (which is an Indian slang used to refer to your maternal grandma)

My Nani was this adorable, soft spoken, religious lady who left parts of herself in each one of my family members. She physically suffered a lot during this lifetime of hers. Having rheumatoid arthritis for over 35 years of her life, she had restricted physical mobility. From arms to legs to most of her body, we helplessly saw her getting deteriorated and it tore each one of us to see her going through this pain. As a child, I saw her doing just some of the tasks with little difficulty. But in spite of her physical condition, my childhood was filled with food, prayer sessions and love-- lots and lots of love, all my Nani special. As I grew up, I learnt how her body had more limitations now. Some and more of the tasks were taken up by others in the house. Nevertheless, if there were less of pots of food from her, there was more time she would sit in that corner of our house and pray. Relentlessly. As I grew up, she grew old. My achievements meant more of data points than a fully understood story that she would have remembered. The last couple of years before she passed on to a higher life were immensely difficult for her. From turning around in her bed to using the restroom, she needed help for most of the things now. But irrespective of how tough the night would have been, she would still wake up at her usual time in the morning, talk to me, bless me and wish me a good day ahead. No matter how difficult walking even 4 steps were, she would still join us at the lunch and dinner table every day. Filling my memories with her presence, in her own way.

I love her and miss her just like my favourite toy from childhood. So close in my memory yet so far. So that afternoon in May last year, when I was in this utter physical pain, I took each step with difficulty and cribbed, I thought of her.

How did her self-talk look like with all that pain? How did she still continue to pray and have so much faith? How was her 35 years of quarantine?

That afternoon in May last year, for the first time, I identified her pain being more than just of physical.

I now wondered how inside of her mind looked like. And that afternoon, I vividly remember saying this to myself, if I can tell even an iota of positive things, she would have told herself, I will sail through this physical pain of mine.

She indeed left parts of herself in each of us. It is just a matter of time until we discover them. And once we do, there is no turning back. There is just before and after."