Observations on Homesickness

Dear dedicated reader,

The pace of life here in all its agreeable slowness gives much time for personal reflection, and as I sat thoughtfully peeling a tamarind in the kitchen today, looking out through the open doors at the back of the house into the garden full of blooming, red flowers, I felt a pang of sad dislocation.

On most days, the uprooting of myself from the US and my subsequent replanting here feels painless, and indeed even wonderful as I soak in the familiar newness of it all. But, I would not be human if there were not those few days, like today, where I experience the growing pains of putting down new roots in foreign soil, real pangs of sadness.

Homesickness, in all its clichéd predictability, is all too real and it is a side of my experience that I am reluctant to show because, while misery may love company, company does not love misery. And though, honestly, I experience no misery here, I do sometimes feel the longing to be at home.

It is a longing that functions on many levels: First, there is always the question of the material things that one does without: the foods one especially misses (Sweet corn! Soy milk! Dark chocolate! Peaches!), comfy mattresses and pillows, jam that doesn’t taste like chemicals and an internet connection that moves faster than paint dries. While these things form the crust of my homesickness, they are easily cracked and their absence only symptomatic of a deeper feeling.

Underneath, there is that soft, tender question of personal habits: where one finds peace, be it in the confines of a bustling coffee shop or on a blanket in a public park, taking exercise through a jog down a public sidewalk or a long bike ride on a city street. There is knowing what constitutes ‘good value’ and ‘good quality’, and knowing instinctively where to find these things. There is a latent preference for browsing in a stationary shop in delightful, unhassled anonymity.

But even underneath this, there is something more. Merely the symptoms, these daily changes in custom which I have mentioned are still only superficial and on most days easily accommodated. Harder to swallow is the rocky, well packed foundation upon which all of this rests and which on such days my newly formed roots stretch boldly to touch: that elusive feeling of difference, of scrutiny, of self-consciousness.

The heart of the matter, it is characterized by a constant decision making: today will I go with the tide, or will I fight it? On almost every occasion, I choose the former; however, it is always a choice. There is always the possibility of falling into my own internal grooves, my own culturally embedded way of acting, and because of this is it impossible to remain neutral, to live life in an uncomplicated, unintentional kind of way.

I often feel like a child, having to be explicitly taught social cues, learning only through misstep subtle cultural signals and messages. Most days, I don’t mind: learning these things through mistakes is often a good source of stories and laughs and there has certainly been no shortage since I came to Kadod. But there is also the reality of how others perceive these missteps, and occasionally it is not always funny.

A small, but meaningful example: a week or so ago I was sitting in the computer lab, reading as I sometimes do, and the principal came in. I didn’t notice right away, but as he did, the staff stood up, despite their being no students in the room. He began to talk to one of the teachers about some small issue that he had, and as he did he glanced my direction. When I realized what I had done, I stood up, uncomfortably, knowing that I was late on the draw. He left, and I sat back down to read, but found I could not focus on my book. After a moment I asked the one of the other teachers in halting Hindi, “When sir comes in the room, we are supposed to stand?”

She looked at me as if it was the most obvious thing in the world: “Of course, we must show him respect,” she replied.

I nodded. What must he think? I have so much respect for him and his family, and yet this feeling doesn’t translate without these small culturally appropriate indications. While I generally have no problem ‘acting American’ as that is what I am, I like to do so with cognizance of the implications of how I act, why I do what I do and how it is different.

Obviously, no damage was done in this case, but it is a small indication of how I must always be self-aware, always ready to be instructed culturally and never truly, comfortably, unintentionally at ease with those that I know.

And that knowledge can sometimes, on those select days, be a very little bit lonely.

Best,
Cat