The Journey Home

“I want to feel the way I did then,” croons Akash, the star of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Bombay Dreams in the evocative number The Journey Home. A.R. Rahman’s music accompanies the lyrics, starting off with heavy nostalgia.

The journey home
Is never too long
Your heart arrives before the train…
Some yesterdays always remain
I'm going back to where my heart was light
When my pillow was a ship I sailed through the night

The musical aside, most of us struggle “to feel the way we did then” when we visit India. To say that India is changing is but a cliché. That the spiritual is subordinated by cell phones and cars is a reality. That friends take you to a nouveau Italian restaurant, as you suppress your desire for a Chola Bhatura, is a normal occurrence.

In your yesterdays, when you asked for “readymade tea” in upscale 5-Star restaurants the waiter politely refused bringing a tea-kettle with hot black water and milk alongside it. You drooped your eyelids mixing a fistful of sugar cubes with the two ingredients, hiding from others who overheard you pleading for “readymade tea.”

But that was then. Today, the readymade tea has taken on a new avatar—the Masala Chai and competes with six different coffee concoctions.

Friends meet you, seldom with a lasting hug. They make brief eye contact as their fingers punch away on little keyboards posing as phones—an act seemingly more pervasive than chewing on the venerable Betel leaf. They economically smile attempting to pay attention to both your speak and their “texting.” In intervals they clasp on the cell phone, staring blankly in your eyes. They blurt out a question “so, how is Parth?” As you start answering, the clasp opens and typing on the keypad resumes.

When you step out, you are steered to a café, a chain that seems to be procreating faster than the country’s inhabitants. In the café, your eyes hop from one snack to another longing to see a Samosa or a heapful of Pakoras, but in vain. As the friend starts to unwrap a clinical Spinach-corn sandwich you sit fantasizing the taste of a fried, peas-potato filled Samosa.

In the evening, you feel free as your friends seem to have freed-up. They ask for a choice of cuisine. You say Butter Chicken and Naan to which they perplex “Indian, not again yaar!” You nod sheepishly. Realizing the disappointment, they suggest a Bengali restaurant.

You walk in to this restaurant with décor more Rhone than Rajdhani. Exotic dishes are brought, you are told straight from the rice paddies off the Sunderban. You order Railway Mutton Curry, the entrée familiar to you on the menu.

As fish is served, you nudge at the waiter and ask him “does it have bones in it,” in Hindi. The tables next give the same look that you received in your yesterdays when you asked for readymade tea.

Dessert arrives. The Rasgollas are light brown and you push them away thinking they have gone bad. The friend explains that the Rasgollas are healthier; after all they are made from jaggery, the unrefined sugar once popular only in villages. You shake your head. What is so bad about white Rasgollas, you think, as you hesitatingly lick the brown ball.

The friend asks, where next? You suggest a Light and Sound show hoping to visit one of the city’s historical monuments. The friend nods, and you see a glimmer of hope of a desire finally getting fulfilled.

You are taken to a place that is named after the two new economies—India and China. You ignore the glare of mean looking bouncers but the blare of loud western music is unavoidable. You walk amidst shoulder length bonfires.

Men and women twist on their heels as they scream in each other’s ears. You are introduced to a milieu of friends who, you wonder, if have never clasped their hands and said Namaste. Just then, they lean over and give you a peck somewhere between your nose and ear.

You are asked about Obama and Clinton, as you try to inquire about Laloo and Mayawati, to which you are treated to an impromptu lesson on India’s political economy.

You look around for the forlorn Bombay Tambi, the waiter from your yesterdays. But, this server is a far cry from him. She comes to your gathering and starts reciting names like Balvenie and Belvedere. When it is your turn you say “beer” to which you are urged to be more specific. You skip the question and scream from across “do you have Limca,” a once popular soft drink. Once again, the same glare from others around that you received when you ordered “readymade tea” in your yesterdays. Your friend yells pointing at you “he lives in America,” in the same way when years ago you were introduced as a provincial, one from the hinterlands.

Friends of friends of friends urge you to loosen up. “I have a flight tonight,” you say. “So what,” they say. You murmur “why not” and start grinding your toes imitating others, keeping in sight your original friend in fear of losing yourself.

The atmosphere takes upon you as your shoulders loosen up and start synchronizing with your toes. Next, your knees start to pop in and out displaying the height of ecstasy. You start screaming in people’s ears.

But, alas, the moment does not last. It is 12.15 am and time to head to the airport.

The trip ends in a snowed out Chicago. On the way from the airport you see the familial Indian restaurant. You steer towards it. You walk in and notice Kachoris and Samosas. You order one of each.

As you sit down, you realize Shakalaka Baby is playing, another number from Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Bombay Dreams. You wait it out, licking the green watery chutney in front of you, till you hear Akash’s voice with your favorite number The Journey Home. As you get up to pay, you start mumbling the lyrics…..

I'll think my wishes through before I wish again
Not every road you come across
Is one you have to take
No, sometimes standing still can be
The best move you ever make

The journey home
Is never too long
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This column was first published in India Abroad.