Maybe
it would be better to forget the toxic pollution and orange haze filled skies.
The damp, earthy, gunpowder smell that permeates the air. The constant
cacophony of honking and people yelling. The colorful clothing and cows that
meander through the streets. The dusty, golden sunlight that peers through thin
alleyways.
You can’t preserve it in a jar. When you move
to another country, how do you keep the culture pasted together? Can you
preserve it in a jar? Can you keep the clothing on when eyes burn holes into
your clothing? Can you learn a new tongue?
Maybe
it would be better to forget the patriarchy entrenched in the men. The long
sticky nights. The pain. The fear. Acid. Kitchen fires. Sati. Asylums.
Forgotten land. Polluted rivers swell to polluted skies. Heart attacks where
ambulances are stuck in two-hour traffic. Where women aren’t safe with even the
men in their homes. Where women aren’t educated. Where they cook and clean.
Maybe
moving to a new country where your kids forget what a rangoli is and they don’t
know the difference between buffalo milk and cow milk is better. They don’t
need the history of Diwali and Nav Durga when there’s 1.5 billion people to
carry it on for you. They can trade it in for cozy movie nights and Taco
Tuesdays. Tradition is tradition no matter what the tradition is. Whether it is
new or ancient.
Maybe
it is better to be lost. That way you can make new everything. Create a new
culture of love. Of love for women and men equally. Of cozy bookshelves and
fireplaces. Of traveling. Of noodles and chocolate cake for dinner. Of long
phone calls with long distance friends. Maybe it is better to create a mixed
culture. Of Bollywood movies and a couple visits to the homeland but nothing
permanent. To mold yourself as you see fit instead of other people molding you
to suit their idea of what you should be. You haven’t left it behind. You have
forged something new.
Maybe
we could create something new in this new world.
Just
for you and me.