It was Diwali week and I was off to pick up a little this and that for the festival. With each passing year, as the distance from my roots increases and one more family member has either passed on or moved to a distant place, I find myself caught in the middle. Somedays the torrent of memories threatens to wash me away into a space so unfamiliar that it is hard to drag myself back At such times, I don't write, I don't think even. I don't dwell on what was and what is not.
Yet, breathe, I must and with each breathe comes the fragrance of woodsmoke, so dear and precious from a life left behind. Winter in Goa, growing up in quiet, verdant villages has made me appreciate the signs of community kitchens on open fires or flames dying down softly under huge brass pots fo water heated for Diwali's ceremonial baths.
I doggedly shake my head and walk on to the next aisle as I try to pack those memories away for a time when course work will be done, reports written, child fed, kitchen cleaned and I can once again transport myself down the lanes that beckon in my dreams.
Until then, this will have to. 97 cents, that's a deal! I am aware that my memories lead me to buy and my buying behaviour that leads to economic transactions lead to cash flow. So my presence here and that of 'these people' as newcomers are often/sometimes referred to, is essential, nay critical to fuel the economy.
The mothers who work at the coffee shop down the street also pay to run schools and light up streets.
Did anyone do me a favour by opening doors? Something to think about...
McLaren, A.
T., & Dyck, I. (2004). Mothering, human capital and the "ideal
immigrant". Women's Studies International Forum, 27, 41-53.
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