Where are you from?

The concept of reincarnation is fascinating, isn’t it? It’s so fantastical that one tends to dismiss it, and yet, in a strange way, it’s so steeped in history that you can’t let it go.

 

I was in born in Bombay (as it was then known) to “immigrant” parents. Immigrant because they chose to migrate from Gujarat to Bombay for education and work. India is so big that moving from one part to another is quite like immigration. When someone asks my parents where they are from, they instinctively say “Bombay,” but they also qualify it by saying they’re originally from Gujarat.

 

My paternal grandfather was in pre-partition India. He worked as an architect in Lahore. He moved to Gujarat a few years before the partition, to spend the rest of his years in a small town. When anyone asked him and his wife (my grandmother) where they are from, they would say “Lahore,” but then they would also qualify it by saying they’re settled “here” now. Until their last days (late 1990s), they were known as the architect from Lahore and his family.

 

My father chose to migrate again, for work, this time to England. I tagged along. I didn’t have much of a life, so leaving didn’t bother me. I did some of my schooling in England. I made two best friends in England. I met some absolutely wonderful teachers in England. I had my first beer in England. I have had many beers after that, but I still remember the taste of that first beer (and the taste of the chilli paneer I had along with it). I attended live music shows in pubs in England, supporting local rock bands. I attended my first rock concert in Wembley Arena (Motorhead and Alice Cooper). I took the bus and the tube and train; it was a natural part of my daily life – and so was witnessing some proper badass bus drivers taking no crap from anti-social elements. Like a lot of teenagers, I worked part-time in a supermarket in England. I did early morning and late night shifts on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day because not many others would take that up (and because it was double pay). I pissed away all that extra money I earned on more rock gigs, pubs, beers, and guitar magazines (yes, I was that teenager). I became one with the damp and the grey and the cold.

 

I had a life in England. Which I left.

 

Then I had a life in Bombay again.

 

Then I made a life in Canada. This time I migrated. I became one with the long winters and the Canadian life – whatever that may mean.

 

Then I visited England this summer, this time with a wife and kid. I took the bus and the tube and the train, again. I had more beer, again. I met my two best friends. We are all married and have kids now. Our kids send video messages to each other, and it makes us three friends incredibly emotional knowing that we met as teenagers and seeing how far we have come. I visited a teacher from back in the day. I walked through the streets of Harrow on the way to their house, and I cried inside. We had lunch, and my family socialised with their family. I finally met some virtual colleagues – fellow editors who have bonded in the post-covid world. Our kids played with each other. I went to a few of the pubs I visited many years ago. I had chilli paneer in England again. I stood outside Wembley Arena, staring at the gates, remembering the long queue from that Motorhead concert. I cried.

 

I often feel like I have always been from England. I felt at home there. It’s something about the air – crappy as it may be. When I’m there, I feel like I’ve been there before, and I felt that even when I first visited England as a kid.

 

When someone asks me where I’m from, I hesitate to answer.

 

I’m originally from Bombay, the cosmopolitan and carefree Bombay. Not from the communalised and careless Mumbai. But do I identify with that city? I’m the little boy in a small suburban apartment building in Bombay, who used to play by himself because there were no other kids in the building (or the neighbouring buildings for that matter). I’m the boy who was bullied in primary school and had a violent streak as a result.

 

Today I’m from Edmonton, where I have made whatever I can of a life here. I’m the dad who is dropping off his kid and picking up his kid day in and day out, scurrying in and out of their convenient apartment. I’m the guy who is always working from home, day and night. I’m the guy who no longer frequents pubs.

 

But I’m also that lost teenager from Harrow, who made a life there. Who had a life there. Who lived a life there. Who formed long-lasting relationships there. Who probably identifies with the life there more than anything.

 

England is, in many ways, home. After all, I know more people in England than I know in India and Canada combined! And when I think back to my visit home this summer, I think of these lines I read a long time ago somewhere:

 

Oh, there lurks wild magic in the art of you,

It draws my heart towards the heart of you,

From you no power can separate me,

For I am an inseparable part of you.