Coming of Age*

Its the pangs one feels every now and then. A listless feeling of being lost, wondering why I'm living where I am, whether living in a different continent, far from my birth family was the right thing to do. A sense that I've been a perpetual student and traveler, living in some far off place - to come home for vacation to load up on food and affection. The nomad of the family....am I?

A while back, I had a dream - of Appa seeing me off at the railway station, saying "Study well and ace your exams!". There I was, saree clad, waving goodbye to him. In that dream, I find myself saying - "Appa, this is what you've been saying to me since I was 17....And I've been journeying ever since. Would there ever be a time I'll come back home?". There's a catch in my throat, as the train starts to leave. Appa is smiling and waving, ever the reassuring father. Ever the gentle force in my life who masks his own pain and reaches out to others. Is there any wonder that no man can ever match up to dad in a woman's life?

Last year, on a particularly tired day I wondered how it would be to go home. To have that place I call "home" nearby, where I can visit and put my feet up.

Felt once again torn at choosing to live thousands of miles away from home. Felt guilty. Wondered what'll happen, where my "home" will be if my parents were no longer around. Got depressed wondering if I was doing the right thing, living so far away.

Then out of the blue came the answer: Create your own home!

The answer stunned me in its simplicity, and something clicked into place. The inner voice said "create in your corner of the world - a place you can call yours, and make it into a haven for those that frequent it".

I don't know what to call it - the subconscious speaking, guidance from a higher power.....but that helped me. Now I'm trying to create my own space. I think about all that my mother did to create her home. Have resigned myself to the fact that my home will never be as neat or as organized as Amma's. Amma is a neat freak. Maybe that's why organization and I don't get along too much, though a friend recently pointed out (to my delight) that there's an organization to my disorganization. He explained that I have a general area where everything goes, though things may not have individual slots :)

Hallelujah to that. True and complete organization won't be a factor in my home creation. But there are other ways I try to make my apartment a home. Cooking, for instance.

I have a medley of recipes, many gleaned from observation and improvised to suit my taste. Most of these are Amma's recipes that I can cook almost on autopilot. Then there are those recipes from friends, and blogsites I frequent. A few others are my inventions.

Coming home to the aroma of a homecooked meal is an experience I value. And recreating this feeling has surprisingly become the path to 'adulthood' for me.

Kamala, loyal audience that she is, seems to be satisfied with my cooking. Then there is Mark. Occasionally I make something for a neighbor, or a colleague who has helped me from time to time, giving advice on anything from dating to parenthood. My Texan neighbor doesn't remember the names of the dishes, but she can describe them pretty well - which makes me feel good. The colleague is a harried mother of three, and cooking for her is my way of helping her and saying thanks. She and her children seem to like what I make, which is a bonus.

There are a few others nice enough to sample my meal and proclaim it to be good. Like a good buddy who came over for Thanksgiving a year ago, to a hot meal prepared especially for him. I was so glad to have someone catch a plane to come see me that I took extra efforts in the kitchen. I made him some banana bread, packing a loaf to take with him at the end of the visit. I remember smiling happily while doing this - there was an almost maternal feeling in that action. I am thankful to him for giving me that moment.

So....I've finally become 'adult', or something like it. But I still get homesick. I still want to sit down once in a while and cry like Rani Mukherjee did in Bunty aur Babli - a honest-to-gosh open-mouthed wail of "Mummmmeeeeee".

Then I remember that this is home too.
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*Post inspired by Whirling Betty's blog "growing up"