It’s been over six years since I left home. Six years since a half dozen doting elders shed bucketsful of tears at the airport. Six years since I swapped meandering on Marine Drive for sauntering down the South Bank and Saint-Laurent.
I could barely contain my mirth when all my uncles and aunts went misty-eyed over my departure. But the boot’s on the other foot now. I often find myself stricken with nostalgia. Imagine! Accused all my life of being cold and practical, and now that I’m discovering I do have a heart, no one’s here to see my softer side.
So I’m going to vent it online. I’m sure I’m not the only Indian adrift abroad. I’m sure I’m not the only one missing home. I’m sure I’m not the only one making a million calls across the oceans. So this blog is to be about the joys and woes of the migrant experience. It’s to be about the insider’s view from without and the outsider’s view from within. It’s to be about one Indian’s take on life in the West and one Westerner’s take on life in the subcontinent. Above all, it’s to be about The Call of Home.
Welcome to my Migrant Memoirs.