attentive disorder

I’m just back from a visit from India. From home. And by God the time flew quickly. Quicker even than even Kumar Gaurav’s career in acting. And for those of you who dont know, that is quick. The thing that hits me most when I visit home every year is the much too (ahem) unwanted kingly status I get from everyone around. Except of course from my brother who wonders what the fuss is all about and expresses his innermost feelings of how he misses me by noticing and clearly stating the ever increasing size of my belly.

But coming back to my status when I get back home, under all the coolness of a yeah-I'm-a-funky-phoreign-return-dood, I am secretly bursting inside with happiness at all the attention I am getting. And to tell you the truth, everyone I know in this situation – all my friends who make their once a year trip home, have more or less the exact same feeling.

Why? I'll tell you why. The thing is, I live in a country which is 6000 kms away from home. A country thats home to the Big Ben, the Queen and most variety of umbrella. It takes about 8 hours by flight which is which is even longer than it takes to pronounce VVS Laxman’s full name. Point is its far away.

Granted it is the country of fine beer and hot women. But we stand even the slightest chance of getting any attention only when there is a lot of intake of the former into the latter. This is precisely the time when my good friend and compatriot Mohan Sachdev starts dancing and as a result scares away all the women and most of the times even all the animals. I have no relatives to fall back on and so the only attention I get is from my landlord, who is under the constant impression that my company will go bankrupt tomorrow, not pay me and in a fit of rage I will tear down her walls and piss on her carpet.

Anyways, I cherish the 2 weeks I’m home , when my parents continuously spoil me, much to my brother’s wonder, and the all the aunts and uncles come from far and wide of the colony I live in, to visit me. And in spite of the fact that when they get back home and gawk in amusement at my put-on accent and size 40 stomach, in front of me, they laugh and say how I’ve grown and how lovely it must be to live in phoreign country. They seem genuinely interested at what I do and why I’m sill single (unmarried) and how much I earn and how they know this second cousins daughter who is a graduate and beautiful and whose hobbies include going abroad.

All said and done, its fun. Its fun to recall all the lovely memories , fun to catch up with old friends, laugh at the times we told lies at home and would go for parties or for long drives, at the ever grumpy Mrs Kamble who lived on the 7th floor and pimple faced pig tailed Pinky who kept trying to get our attention, at the drinking sessions, at our exploits at college. We look at our lives now and see how we’ve moved on. I miss my mother’s food and I make sure I eat every love-filled morsel of it. I miss my father’s one line, powerful impact advices. Fights and conversations with my brother. Gangabai, our servant whose grown older now and cant work, the chai wala in front of college, the trips to my native place –well I could go on. All in all, in a very polished, smooth and systematic life in London, I miss the lovely madness that is India. And all the attention I get.

Right now though, I have to leave as my landlords knocking at my front door. I think she wants to see if her carpets are dry.