The demise of secular India and what it means for those who are away and still call it home forms the subject of this Atlantic essay. I have not been in the author's shoes but can strongly relate to his sense of loss:
To lose one’s country is to know a feeling akin to shame, almost as if one has been disowned by a parent, or turned out of one’s home. Your country is so intimately bound up with your sense of self that you do not realize what a ballast it has been until it is gone. The relationship is fundamental. It is one of the few things we are allowed to take for granted, and it is the basis of our curiosity about other places. Without a country we are adrift, like people whose inability to love another is linked to an inability to love themselves.
For me this loss of country came about while I was still in India. Until then, it was my dream to contribute to my county by completing my higher education there and joining the workforce. I had many strong role models around me who had taken this path and were doing well for themselves. I viewed those who jumped ship to immigrate to America as traitors to the cause. They had availed the scant resources of a poor country, received their college education almost for free and decided to become part of the brain drain that was hollowing India out. I was absolutely determined not to be one of them.
Until college this was all very theoretical for me. I could afford to sit on my moral high horse and be disdainful about people abandoning India to pursue their selfish goals of amassing personal wealth on the broken backs of their countrymen who could ill afford to support the government subsidies that was funding their engineering education. I was going to be better than that.
And then it was my turn to be one of those fortunate beneficiaries of the education that could open a lot of doors. In my case it was the process of arriving to that point that truly shook up my entire belief system. I understood first hand how difficult the task was, how high the odds were stacked against the likes of me and how kids just as qualified and deserving as me - if not more, missed out in this absolutely wild game of chance.
I remember that toxic mix of guilt and exhilaration that followed college admission. I was not undeserving but neither were the thousands of others who did not make it in - some among them were kids I had known since childhood. Yet what I was getting for my troubles was woefully inadequate. This is not the education I had dreamed of, it was not the worth the price of passage and it was deeply unfair to leave many others just like me outside, with the doors closed. There was no joy for me in the four years of college - I don't think I learned anything of enduring value except how to survive in adversity, cope with disappointment and make the most of what morsels of opportunity came my way.
It was around the same time, I first became aware of my maternal desire. I dreamed of motherhood as second chance - a way to use my energy and imagination to give another human being a chance to live a better, more impactful life. But with the dream came this idea of doing right by the child I would have. Knowing what I did about building a life and career in India, could I in good conscience do this to my kid. Specially if this child happened to be female.
By the time I entered the workforce right out of college, there was little doubt in my mind that I could not raise a child in India and reasonably give them the life I had wanted for myself - and this was not about material success. All around me were people who were doing very well for themselves, living and working in India. They were willing to live in their elite bubbles, untouched by challenges that India presents to most people. They would buy their way out and their kids would live the privileged life. Doors would be opened for them.
I found myself unable to relate to this crowd as they forged their path in India. They came from my social circles, we attended the same kinds of schools and colleges and definitely did not grow up in any kind of bubble. Our families were mainstream, middle-class. The India I knew and loved was the one that shaped me - it required being part of the human flow in everyday, ordinary things. Our landlord at one point was also a cow-herd. His cows made a terrific racket each morning as they mooed in the courtyard, the whole place reeked of hay, dung and milk.
I was well integrated with the family and all of us kids ran wild in the neighborhood. It made no difference that our fathers had such different professions. We celebrated the same festivals and had very similar rituals. The cultural values were not so far apart either. To me that was living close to reality and actually understanding what it means to be Indian - it is what made people like me unique. If the only way I could live was in a bubble, my child would never get to be Indian in the sense that actually matters. I made my choice and will always mourn losing my country.
To lose one’s country is to know a feeling akin to shame, almost as if one has been disowned by a parent, or turned out of one’s home. Your country is so intimately bound up with your sense of self that you do not realize what a ballast it has been until it is gone. The relationship is fundamental. It is one of the few things we are allowed to take for granted, and it is the basis of our curiosity about other places. Without a country we are adrift, like people whose inability to love another is linked to an inability to love themselves.
For me this loss of country came about while I was still in India. Until then, it was my dream to contribute to my county by completing my higher education there and joining the workforce. I had many strong role models around me who had taken this path and were doing well for themselves. I viewed those who jumped ship to immigrate to America as traitors to the cause. They had availed the scant resources of a poor country, received their college education almost for free and decided to become part of the brain drain that was hollowing India out. I was absolutely determined not to be one of them.
Until college this was all very theoretical for me. I could afford to sit on my moral high horse and be disdainful about people abandoning India to pursue their selfish goals of amassing personal wealth on the broken backs of their countrymen who could ill afford to support the government subsidies that was funding their engineering education. I was going to be better than that.
And then it was my turn to be one of those fortunate beneficiaries of the education that could open a lot of doors. In my case it was the process of arriving to that point that truly shook up my entire belief system. I understood first hand how difficult the task was, how high the odds were stacked against the likes of me and how kids just as qualified and deserving as me - if not more, missed out in this absolutely wild game of chance.
I remember that toxic mix of guilt and exhilaration that followed college admission. I was not undeserving but neither were the thousands of others who did not make it in - some among them were kids I had known since childhood. Yet what I was getting for my troubles was woefully inadequate. This is not the education I had dreamed of, it was not the worth the price of passage and it was deeply unfair to leave many others just like me outside, with the doors closed. There was no joy for me in the four years of college - I don't think I learned anything of enduring value except how to survive in adversity, cope with disappointment and make the most of what morsels of opportunity came my way.
It was around the same time, I first became aware of my maternal desire. I dreamed of motherhood as second chance - a way to use my energy and imagination to give another human being a chance to live a better, more impactful life. But with the dream came this idea of doing right by the child I would have. Knowing what I did about building a life and career in India, could I in good conscience do this to my kid. Specially if this child happened to be female.
By the time I entered the workforce right out of college, there was little doubt in my mind that I could not raise a child in India and reasonably give them the life I had wanted for myself - and this was not about material success. All around me were people who were doing very well for themselves, living and working in India. They were willing to live in their elite bubbles, untouched by challenges that India presents to most people. They would buy their way out and their kids would live the privileged life. Doors would be opened for them.
I found myself unable to relate to this crowd as they forged their path in India. They came from my social circles, we attended the same kinds of schools and colleges and definitely did not grow up in any kind of bubble. Our families were mainstream, middle-class. The India I knew and loved was the one that shaped me - it required being part of the human flow in everyday, ordinary things. Our landlord at one point was also a cow-herd. His cows made a terrific racket each morning as they mooed in the courtyard, the whole place reeked of hay, dung and milk.
I was well integrated with the family and all of us kids ran wild in the neighborhood. It made no difference that our fathers had such different professions. We celebrated the same festivals and had very similar rituals. The cultural values were not so far apart either. To me that was living close to reality and actually understanding what it means to be Indian - it is what made people like me unique. If the only way I could live was in a bubble, my child would never get to be Indian in the sense that actually matters. I made my choice and will always mourn losing my country.
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