Rosalyn D'mello: The notions of home we carry with us

It seems like such an inconsequential activity this digging up of roots this confronting of past selves PicThinkstockI have been living a life of relative austerity as I work assiduously to finish the assignment that brought me to Bombay In fact Irsquod have preferred to have written this column later tonight after Irsquod have attended the Symphony Orchestra of Indiarsquos performance of Mahlerrsquos Symphony No 1 especially since my companion for the evening is the irresistibly fabulous Rehaan Engineer whose drawings are currently on display at Project 88 Given my fangirl love for the Gael Garciastarring Mozart in the Jungle Irsquove made the effort to dress fancily Irsquom wearing a stunning emerald Kimonolike outfit designed by the supremely talented Arunima Majhi whose eponymous label is certain to my most preferred for a long timeMy sole me time has been my lateevening walks back to my friendrsquos place in Colaba from Ballard Estate But walking is a very contested activity for me whenever Irsquom in this city Especially in South Bombay I look at a random wall and a memory flashes back at me gripping me with its gnawing teeth I try to evade it try not to look focus on the road ahead on finding something resembling a footpath then I see a railing or a shop sign and once more Irsquom flooded by ghosts from the past Itrsquos been happening with such frequency I can no longer tell whether it was selfimpelled or if this difficult nostalgia is the consequence of my recent reading of Suketu Mehtarsquos novella What is Remembered that I was lucky enough to receive as a lsquogiftrsquo from a new appbased publishing companyMehtarsquos protagonist Mahesh struggles with trying to remember his motherrsquos name a crisis that takes him to New Yorkrsquos Jackson Heights in what turns out to be a comically surreal evening with everything from chikki to a remote control serving as triggers of memory with one monumental encounter with the Expert Liar who warns him about the dangers of remembering too much without necessarily filtering these memories Mehtarsquos received a fair amount of flak for the story with critics calling it postdated immigrant fiction but Irsquom not ashamed to admit how much I enjoyed reading the novella Perhaps because I was reading it in Bombay as I was biting into an intriguingly concocted modak dosa at Thambi one of the best udipi restaurants in Kurla I realized it wasnrsquot really just a story about an immigrant experience it was about all the notions of home we carry with us that are suspended in air that we can only gain entry into through the sensory world the fifth dimensionIt seems like such an inconsequential activity this digging up of roots this confronting of past selves at random red lights or on the 12th step of the Town Hall or seated at the centre table at Mondegar or kneeling on a church pew to see all these lived versions of myself as if they were now somehow separate from me in an outofbody kind of way and to feel the hotness of either shame or desire or derision towards a specific one or sometimes towards the collective Inconsequential when the world is experiencing one of the most traumatic refugee crises in the last few decades To have even a marginal sense of home or to have mobility between two homes is a luxury that we take for granted My angst is inexcusableThis morning in the shower I thought of a poetic variation to the Descartian dictum ldquoI think therefore I amrdquo ldquoI am because I was meant to berdquo is what I found myself uttering after Irsquod run through other permutations the original being ldquoI am even though I wasnrsquot meant to berdquo a reference to my mother having me in her early forties despite being a highrisk pregnancy To say I was meant to be is to believe my existence was somehow preordained Maybe it was But by whom The universeEven the rain brings with it recollections of past monsoons forcing me to consider whether I have become a prisoner of my memories both the ones that have calcified and the ones that are vanishing All of which makes walking in Mumbai akin to skirting around a minefield wondering when I might be absolved of this weight wondering when all these disparate selves might merge into a singular soulUntil then I realize I must go with the flow wait for pauses to collect then cross the road skirt through tenuous footpaths and over familiar scents I figure if I stalk my shed lives they canrsquot then stalk meDeliberating on the life and times of Everywoman Rosalyn DrsquoMello is a reputed art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover She tweets RosaParx Send your feedback to mailbagmiddaycom