NON-RESIDENT INDIAN

Vignesh Rajendran.

Journal entry Day 344: 10th December 2015

A warm, cosy winter morning at my luxurious apartment by the seaside in Miami, a laptop in front

of me and a cup of black coffee to go with, that’s how I expected today to be. Instead, I’m at the

arrival gate of Kamaraj International Airport in Chennai, waiting for my cabbie to pick me up. The scorching sun in winter is what beats me about this place. Both are port cities, but you cannot just draw a comparison between Chennai and Miami whatsoever. Miami is way cooler, temperature- wise and well, comfort-wise too. Most importantly, having lived in the US for almost a decade now, it is what I call home. I haven’t been to India since forever, and it only seems right to call myself an American now. Except here I am, still waiting for the cab driver who claims that he is stuck in traffic

and won’t be able to make it for a few more minutes. To clarify things up before I proceed further, I wasn’t really a ‘Chennaite’. I hail from this small village called Echoor which falls in the Kancheepuram District and is about 60km from this place. I did my undergrad here in Chennai though, and like most people, it felt better on my dignity to call myself a city guy. My life in India was a struggle. Being a farmer's son  didn’t really help me with easy opportunities. However, as luck had it, along with a little bit of hard work on my part, I made it into a decent engineering college in Chennai and then did my MBA in IIM Bangalore.

Following this I moved to the US with a job offer in my hand and subsequently opened my own start-up which today is making a lot of cash, and I pretty much am one of the  Indian millionaires living lavishly in the US. The cab has arrived now, and I am finally able to rest myself a little bit. Almost dozing off to sleep,

thanks to the jet lag and the hours of travel, I think of the circumstances that brought me here. It wasn’t a choice, obviously. I hated India from the moment I moved to the US. After getting used to the life there, I think anybody would. And I don’t hold myself responsible for that. It was what I was put through here in India. During my initial years there, I would still feel a little attached and come by to see my parents, but now that they aren’t alive anymore, it doesn’t make any sense to me. Moreover, marriage to an American only drew me further away from my homeland. But yesterday at almost 11:30 in the night, I got a frantic call from someone who tried to speak English, but changed the tongue as soon as I replied in Tamil. Apparently, the house that my parents had lived in (I bought it for them just two years before their death in an accident), caught fire and put a few lives in danger. Nobody knew the cause of the fire but they were convinced that it was

paranormal. I tried to explain to them that I lived oceans away and they shouldn’t be making me waste my valuable time on such a stupid trip to investigate a paranormal activity but I was told that they would have to burn down the house if I wouldn’t go. Talk about irrational stupidity.

I finally reach a motel in Echoor where I decide to sleep in. It is a very small two storey building that provides extremely unhygienic non-AC rooms without a good shower. And this is the best I could find in my village. I quickly take a bath and rush to my ‘home’ to monitor the situation. It is only a kilometre or so away, so I decide to walk. The rickshaws don’t suit me anyway. I find people staring

at me throughout, maybe they’re just thinking how a stranger has stepped into their kingdom. Or they find me funny. I just pass. Then I see some children looking at me with awe, after all, strangers don't tend to show up in this little town. One boy comes up and asks me all sorts of questions about who I am or where I am from. and when I answer, the kids relate my words to their geography classes and argue whether the USA is in Europe or Africa. I don’t even try correcting them. I simply ignore the faces and focus on the atmosphere around. Honestly, nothing about this place seems to have changed in all

these years. The same dirty and broken roads, little houses without toilets and Pan stalls in every corner of the street. What does the government even do to change the lifestyle of these people? I walk for about another five minutes and I see my house standing there, half burnt but otherwise exemplary. For the

first time since I landed here, I feel a pinch in my throat, like I actually care. But I rub those emotions off, and walk closer, to deal with things maturely, and then leave as fast as I can. I head to the veranda, where I see some familiar folks from my childhood chattering, and when they notice me, they welcome me with an excitement that I never expected. Trying to talk with sophistication, the elders shower me with respect and treat me like a celebrity. I feel uncomfortable for a while, but

then I get used to it and try to go straight to the point and ask them to share their concerns. They say that the fire erupted from the bedroom, but the police seemed to find no evidence of what might have caused it. The fire not only burnt half of the house, but it also caused damage to the neighboring house and put the life of a little child in grave danger while she was playing up in the terrace. This created concern among the society who, along with the police decided to contact me to avoid such problems

in the future. They now want me to sell the house to the Panchayat so that they can break it down and construct a temple so that the evil forces will be shooed away. I’m pretty convinced that someone from the government body put fire to the house and planned this whole thing up, but I’m too apathetic to argue or take this issue further. The house holds no sentimental value to me anyway, and getting rid of this liability would mean I wouldn’t ever have to come back here. So I agree to the offer and they say the officials would come and finalize the deal in a month, for which I’d have to travel here a couple of times again, to which I frown. They all leave the place soon, with relief clearly visible in their faces. Either they’re so naïve to believe the government’s crap, or they’re into this foolish plan themselves.

I walk into the duplex house, with a little bit of nostalgia rushing my heart. I could vividly remember my parents’ expression when they realised that their son was rich enough to afford a beautiful two-storey bungalow. Their teary-eyed faces mumbled words I couldn’t make out, but I knew for sure that they were damn proud of me. But my moments with them that day were short-lived as I had to rush back to the US for an emergency meeting. The next time I came here, I was welcomed by their coffins. I scurry through the living room and head upstairs, trying to ignore the isolated memories left behind by my family. I go to the bedroom only to see everything from the cot to the dressing table crumbled to ashes. I quickly search the remains for any evidence, and after realizing that it would be useless as the police would have destroyed anything that could have mattered, I decide to head back. That is when my attention is drawn towards something. In the most unnoticeable corner of the room behind the blackened almirah, I find a piece of paper, partly burnt and crumbly. I first brush it off as the remains of fire, but my instinct pulls me towards it, and I pick up the paper to see a few words clearly etched on it with my father's handwriting- I would burn my house if that would bring my son back home.