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Tracing Roots

I have never enjoyed visiting Kolkata - not while I lived in India or now that I don't. It was a like eating a bitter pill - the thing you had to do so you could spend time with people you cared about. That feeling has stood the test of time. Every morning, I walked with my father to the local market where he buys fish and vegetables. The banter with the fishmonger and vegetable sellers has not changed at all. There is some gentle teasing and haggling over prices - both sides know if it is low-stakes and part of the performative process of buying things in the marketplace. He knows many of the vendors by name - they in turn remember he has a daughter who is visiting for a couple of weeks and that he has a grandchild. One of the fruit sellers promised to get me jamun (Indian blackberry) before I left. He knows the tree that he'll need to climb to get me about five hundred grams of fruit. 

L gave me is WhatsApp number so I could call ahead and make sure he had the fruit for me. S, my father's favorite vegetable seller is making sure I get to try all the local delicacies I have missed for years - things that are so niche to the Bengali experience that it would be hard to explain the draw to anyone else. Back at home, I have taken over my mother's tiny kitchen to try my hand and cooking very complex meals, feeding family and friends. It has become a point of pride for me that my cooking is authentic and does not involve my usual creative leaps with recipes. I am back at my roots, being Bengali and nothing else. There is a certain joy in that act of simplification in my identity. As much as I detest Kolkata as a place, I care deeply about my cultural identity of which Kolkata does form an integral and unshakable part. 

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