I had often marvelled at the nationalism of the Indians abroad. Why was it so strident? Was the NRI protesting too much, having opted for a cushier option? Or is s/he engaged in battle with some invisible monster and not letting on? It takes a trip abroad to know the associated feeling. And it isn't anything I've heard it claimed to be. It isn't only the near and the dear you miss; it is the heat, the crowds, the people who annoyed you, everything. Some of us newbies wallow in nostalgia and claim with excessive vehemence there's nothing like home. Others brazen it out, speaking like they have marbles in their mouth and affecting an accent. Still others say it is the separation from the group/community that leaves you feeling like you've been dropped from a plane two miles high. And they are perhaps closer to the truth: It isn't India they are missing, it is -- to put it in psychological parlance -- the context they lived in. And everything, but everything, is part of it. So you miss the ones you like and those you detest. It doesn't change your feelings about anyone -- unless you are willing to settle in sentimental ooze and claim it has. You wish your old friends/colleagues, whatever, are close for you to be with, and the odious for you to avoid. The people you knew, the humidity, the daily battles, are part of you in a way a spanking new environment and the promise of progress aren't. You grab at pieces from your old world, learning anew the modest martyrdom evident in songs like Main pal do pal ka shayar hoon, the youthful indignation of Jinhen naaz hai Hind pe... while lingering over the odour of garam masala, when trying to find remnants of Indianness -- as you want it -- in the Indians of the area. And though you earlier tended to be a devil's advocate you are surprised to find yourself defending India and most things Indian a little too vociferously for your own liking. You know the ambassador's suit isn't cut for you. You need your past close up; all that was part of you has to painfully drawn up around you like a security blanket. And it's a bit demeaning to know that. It doesn't make a jot of difference how well you are doing, if you are engaged in novel work you haven't done for years. Trouble is, you have to go home in the evening. And, yeah, it isn't home. Perhaps overeducated idiots like certain columnists on my favourite news site are actually trying to deal with these feelings of rootlessness when they subsume themselves in hate and try to clarify -- in French, German or any other damned way they can -- that they love their circle, however insular the radius. It is a little desperate and very selfish necessity, this homesick nationalism that is willing to see others who believe in you sacrificed. But there's no such comforting hate to rescue me, for a rejection of absolutes was perhaps all I ever had. And that doesn't provide quite the thick emotional screen I perhaps need. True, I have to face the fact that the turmoil could have something to do with a five-year-old child on the other part of the planet weeping into the phone. The one more damaged is at the other end of the line, yes. And that makes it even worse. What it leaves behind is a sense of isolation that will stay with you wherever you are, whatever you convince yourself you ought to feel. And you dimly perceive it may have not only to do with nostalgia, a desire for identity, whatever. It is the horrifying realisation that the cocoon you snuggled into so comfortably also hangs in unending space. It is a humbling feeling, yes. And that desolation is part of every one of us. It's a rare occasion when Associate Editor P Rajendran, in the US for his doctorate, gives in to nostalgia like this. Tell us what you think of this diary
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