Nostalgia Thy
Name
The recent
Srishti photo session featuring smiling faces; occasional email
chats, telephone and Skype talks with a few; an email invitation
from a neighbour to bless their son on his Upanayanam and, above all,
a request to post email regularly to the Group, rekindles nostalgia.
It is good to
know that re-laying of the road inside Srishti is shaping well. That
should settle the issue for another two years. The garbage centre has
moved a few metres away. It now faces Vavad (?). I don't know how
much credit goes to Srishti. But kudos to Siroya for posting a guard
24x7. For Srishti-ites the garbage will no longer waft its
concentrated version but a marginally diluted stink. We feel sorry
for Vavad. We can close windows and doors, But Vavad cannot
down its shutters. Let's hope Vavad will pull strings to get the dump
shifted a little further, and the guy next still a little more, and
gradually the Centre will find itself in the main Bellary Road. That
will probably force civic authorities to take a call.
Here the roads
are clean. The air is unpolluted. You can be sure to fill your lungs
with fresh air each time you breathe. The feeling is high that the
community belongs to us. The other morning we saw an American couple
pick up two crushed Coke cans and a disposable coffee mug. "For
some the community is yet to belong to them. They throw these on the
road," they said as they dropped them in a nearby trash can.
Back in India people would laugh at it and brand the couple well
dressed ragpickers.
This is not to
deny some pleasures of being in India. Neighbours, residents from
other floors or the other Block, would just walk in to our home, and
we enjoy their company for a chat. It helps break the monotony.
Here such a visit is always by prior appointment. Also it is
considered bad manners to ring up someone after 9 pm. In India, you
can always rush to the intercom and check with someone if he is
watching Chris Gayle's fastest 100, or a corrupt politician being
grilled by Karan Thapar or Arnab Goswami.
Also, in India,
aside from the dishes prepared by your spouse you get to taste the
Vadu Mangai and Jackfruit jam prepared by one resident, the special
Hyderabad mango pickle (a little more spicy) that is the trade mark
of another, or the 'poha' and home-ground rasam powder of yet another
the fragrance of which has a knack of alerting the neighbourhood on
what is cooking, or the inimitable Neyy Payasam of someone else, or a
totally satisfying meal that yet another resident serves - to name a
few. These privileges are exclusive
to India - and India alone. And on that score the spirit of community
living is simply matchless.
A
scenario in contrast. Here, two years ago Aunty and our d-i-l
prepared Rasagulla, and it came out well (I dare not say, for
a change). They decided to
share it with the Caucasian neighbour with four children. Their grand
foray into the neighbour's house proudly carrying a glass bowl with
'while balls' shining was shattered when those children looked at it
more with a frown.
Yes, Rudyard Kipling is right: East is East, West is West (and never
the twain shall meet).
V.V. Sundaram
B-703
10 May 2013
