The Hybrid Child

I’ve been a nomad ever since I can remember, hopping from one destination to another. I was born near the ocean, flown across skies and continents, and raised by the desert. I imagined my luggage had wheels and wings, apparating me to distant lands whose art I was yet to devour. All those stamps on my passport testified my wanderlust gene. That’s how I learnt, that’s how I thrived, and that’s how I’ve become.

Growing up in the Arab kingdom was a royal affair of exotic food, hypnotic lights and orgasmic colognes. Mom gifted me Sherlock Holmes and Dad introduced me to Feluda. Chanting of the Hanuman Chalisa was accompanied by echoes of the Fajr prayer. Aloo Posto was a dinner favourite and so was Fettuccine Alfredo. Tagore’s Rabindra Sangeet filled the silence as much as Beethoven’s symphonies. School was all about the exchange of Tiffin boxes and bellowing lunchtime blabber; boxes that carried over a dozen cuisines, and blabber that comprised of 16 different tongues, all resonating as the sound of friendship. Summer vacations often meant receiving weird looks from the crowd because our Chevrolet had suddenly transformed into a rickety rickshaw and my 5-year-old self couldn’t fathom why. Dumplings were replaced with Phuchka, and all I could do was hog on the spicy snack beside the filthy stall while the audience blinked at my naive glee. Curiosity stitched us together.

People sympathised with my frequent address fluctuation. “I don’t mind it”, I said, concealing the smirk of my Bohemian heart. Half the population marveled at my ability to speak in Bengali and the rest was befuddled by my fluent English. “Why can’t I know both?” I asked. After all, one was the dialect in my blood, and the other was the voice in my soul.

I laughed at the stories of the Red Tide and shared them with the White Cricket. I engraved my name on the stone walls and the black sand, and believed it would stay. I waddled through lanes unknown. They were strangers, till they became home. I met people who counted the same stars and danced on the same ground. I got lost, till I was found. I left my mark on the roads abound.  

A map. A world. A giant sea. I could drown. I could fly. A thousand possibilities. I watched and observed and witnessed, and ultimately realized that if you listen very closely, it all melts into one vision and one language and one heartbeat. Call us travelers, rovers or gypsies; we’re all the same kettle of fish. I’m happy with having one foot on the ground and other on the move. And I refuse to cease exploring till my existence is marked with the ink of adventures and my blood becomes an amalgamation of all the soils my lips have touched. Till I meander, till I wonder, till I breathe.