BACK
TO THE ROOTS
Sangeeta
Brajabasi
On an average
day, our itinerary is so crowded that to find time to escape the maddening
crowd of regular duties and re-enter another zone of crowded memories is not
easy. So, the initiative to make this journey and delve into 'Back to roots'
comes with the first few gingerly doubtful, hesitant steps. The thought though
must be nestling somewhere in the crevices of our mind to even contemplate on
'Back To The Roots '. Back to the roots, got me thinking exactly
how far down the road or root should I go to reach the roots. Do I get back to
the childhood home where I grew up playing with my little kitchen set. Do I
digress and start wondering why did I play with the kitchen set and not a toy
car ! No, I did not play with toy cars, mechanics or even a football. Instead I
had the most amazing dolls house, many dolls and the kitchen set. This is
digression, but only to bring out the fact that often in life lack of options
or the lack of knowledge of existing choices shape our thoughts and decisions.
Was my destiny being written somewhere while I toyed with my toys in complete
ignorant bliss? Yes, destinies are written without your permission. No one
comes knocking your door to politely ask you, will this and this suit your
life? Will you be okay doing this instead of that? It does not work that way.
Life happens and we learn to settle in. Like it has happened with all the
people whose roots have changed and not by their choice - no one bothered to
take their permission or consideration. In my first
memory my home was my fortress of freedom, in that home I was playing with toys
of home building, as we all do, till one day we have to move out from that
home. And of course, I have long digressed from the first question, how far I
rewind the tape to reach my roots.
Should I get
back to the day when a young doctor (my father) fell in love with a beautiful
girl with two plaits (my mother) and wrote his first love letter. Which decided
on their life together, of two people coming together, of two families from
different roots joining in matrimony to start a new tree of life. Or should I
trace back my story to my mother's childhood stories of her Rangpur Girls High
School. The place where she laughed and lived her years through girlhood to
womanhood, was that place my first root? If we are born of our mothers then
their roots matter in shaping our lives the most. I still have with me a silver
medal with my mother's name engraved in it (she had won it for her scholastic
aptitude) - does that medal hold a trace of my root? The medal rests in my
Godrej locker along with my father's old, frayed stethoscope, because for me
these are my special mementos which bind me to my roots. I have heard tales of
zamindari, I have heard tales of rich lands in a country now called Bangladesh.
Do I go back to those days of glory and wealth and the luxurious life my
forefathers had earned, inherited and enjoyed? They fail to impress me.
To me they are just like stories from someone else's life. No matter how hard I
try I cannot feel any sense of attachment or connect with these stories, yet
they are the stories of the material richness of my roots. But there is also
pain and pathos hidden in these stories, they move me to tears. The story of
changing fates, changing life, abandoning homes, resettling in another place,
another city and making it home. When I recall my father's deep voice
resonating through our sitting room reciting "Udbastu " (meaning the
refugee ) I wonder does this one word hold the key to my roots?
When the
destiny of a nation changes, the destiny of the people living in that nation
also changes forever. When political boundaries draw lines dividing nations,
the ordinary people are seldom taken into consideration. This is true of my
country and other countries which have gone through divisions of geographical
boundaries, but that is a subject of political history. With the 'stroke of the midnight hour' of 15th August 1947 when India
was born, the 'Roots' of thousands of people forever changed directions beneath
the ground they walked upon. The going back to the roots for those men and
women would never be the same ever again, not easy geographically, not easy
emotionally. Another partition happened in 1971, another nation was born and
another set of roots changed their direction forever. Unlike my forefathers my
generation can talk of going back to the root with much more ease, for their
roots are within the boundaries of their rightful idea of nation. And my next
generation perhaps will not think so agonizingly about going back to the roots.
They will be growing and spreading their roots far and wide rather than holding
them to one place.
The little
'gunj' ( meaning very small town) hidden in an obscure district of Bihar where
I grew up speaking fluent local dialects of Hindi, where I went to a Hindi
medium school, priding myself to be a born Bihari , was where I grew my
first roots. That was 'home' to me and I had known no other home till then. My
roots changed soon, shifting from a gunj in Bihar to a big city in West Bengal,
Kolkata. For the better part of my student life I grew up in Kolkata. My
bonding with the city was becoming stronger with each year of my school and
college life. Roots shifted once more. Today when I use the term ' home' the
only place my heart wants to get back to is the city of Kolkata. Is this the
city of my roots? I question myself. My children have not grown up in this city.
I try to instill in them that home means Kolkata. That is completely my bias
and my love for a city where I want to finally anchor my floating roots. But I
cannot force my children to love a place they know so little about. They are my
children, yet their roots may grow in a totally different direction from mine.
There is a large cross section of Indians who had become foreign nationals
decades ago, their children and grandchildren are born foreign nationals. No
matter how many times they visit India, whichever way they try to hold on to
the cultural connect, these children will never feel any serious connect with
their Indian origin. So, where will these children go to in search of their
roots?
We are living
in a time where the world can easily be seen as a global community. Our
children will feel the pull of roots from the place they have loved most. My grandparent’s
homeland does not feel like my roots or home to me, it is essentially a foreign
country where my forefathers lived. Similarly I cannot imagine my children ever
feeling their filial obligations towards any nation other than the one they
were born in. But that may change with time. They may feel torn between two
cultures, two homes, which will grow onto them later in life. Very few families
today can say that they have lived for the past four generations in the same
city. We are not trees, after all, we do not stand in one place for centuries
holding on to our roots while our leaves fall and new leaves arrive.
The heart aches
even after understanding all the realities of rooting and uprooting. Our life,
job, some simple choices take us away from the place we call root. The new
place and the new home are very dear to us yet we pine deep down for something
more. What is it that we pine for? Is it only a city / town or the people of
that place or simply a brick and mortar structure? What is home for us is
difficult to fathom. But it certainly is a place which we hold very close to
the heart. No matter how far we move out we can always come back to the roots
from time to time to give our restless heart some soulful time with things so
dear.
The answer to
the question of what is root or back to root can never be simple. I am what I
am today, (we all are what we are today) and that has to be the result of an
amalgamation of the various social, cultural and geographical influences.
Drawing analogy with the roots of the tree, my roots too run deep and wide.
When I need to think of going back to the roots, my mind starts building this
beautiful maze of roots entwined into each other. Caught in this maze of roots
from all directions (claiming a hold on my being) I suffocate. The sense of
entrapment and confusion to single out one root above the other makes me want
to break free from this self-created maze .I cannot deny my connection to any
one strand of my root, that would be dishonoring my very entity. To me my roots
are more than my lineage; it is the multiple influences upon my personality
from over the years of my growing up until now.
A lot of this
(the search for roots) has to do with age. Youth is that elixir which fixes all
problems and energizes one to keep going. We do not ponder over roots when young;
it is the time to spread branches. But when age catches up, the potency
of the elixir diminishes, our tired senses yearn to give in to that ultimate
pull of the roots. Some of us can get back to the roots while the others try
and find new roots. For at the end of the story there is no happily ever after,
every story just pauses for a while and then the new chapter is written. Roots
spread in whichever direction it gets space to grow for life indeed is a big
tale either growing away from the roots or growing back to the roots.
The agony of
separation from the roots creates unrest in the mind. Going back to the roots
happens with all of us at some point of our life. We wonder is it the search of
childhood after reaching middle age that pushes us into searching for our
roots. One tragedy of growing up is gradually losing the people who had cared
for us, who had loved us unconditionally. Important people from our life die,
like shedding of leaves, leaving behind a few bare dry branches. In our eternal
search of back to the roots we forget that even if by some magic we can reach
back our roots the same magic of childhood cannot be recreated anymore. That
which stood symbolic as our root has long been withered away in the hands of
time. The same comfort can never be found from that which we have once left
behind. The past is always more glorious in our memory. Past revisited is often
tainted with disappointment, heartache and emptiness. The long arduous journey
tracing back our steps to reach back to the roots may not end up being as
rewarding as the promises of nostalgia. Time and again daring the chances we
always go back in search of our roots. We can end up in utter misery and
disillusionment. On the other hand, if we are lucky, we may trace back our
roots and get to feel the smell of deep cold long forgotten earth holding our
identity like a buried treasure! No matter how different we are from one
another culturally, ethnically, all of us will always have one common desire,
to find an identifiable root, to connect to the self in this vast world of
diversity. It is this seeking that never lets us rest and keeps pulling
us back to the roots. The pull is strong and undeniable, the question is
when we recognize it and at what point we give up the tug of war and allow us
to get pulled back to our roots.
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