Once Upon A Time - Short Story Collection

Dipping and Skipping in Nationalism

A/N

Please note all the words with asterisk are explained as if the narrator has written it.

***

My friend is no America-Born Confused Desi but is one Mr Athmaram Bala Chandra Dubey, fondly dubbed as Mr ABCD from America. Though he has been living his 'American dream' to the fullest, he is quite proud of our motherland.

On one lazy evening, as my wife was pointedly looking at me, trying her level-best to telepathically communicate about doing dishes when I was engrossed in a live Cricket match my cell phone rang flashing an overseas number. I snatched the phone from the table as a life-saver and quickly dashed into the study gesturing that it was a 'phoren*' call.

(*phoren - the word is nothing but foreign. That's how it sounds coming from someone not used to speaking in English, like me for instance)

I saw my wife shake her head in resignation, yet I can vouch for the soiled dishes to still occupy the sink, that I would have to wash later. I know she was very tired catering three-meals per day for the entire family, taking care of the kiddos and their education, and all the while, watching those never-ending, mind-numbing soap-operas on TV.

It was none other than Mr Dubey calling me to inform of his imminent India visit in a month. I urged him to join us early.

'Why?' he asked.

'We are celebrating the Kumbh Mela at the Allahabad* Sangam —the once in twelve years celebrations at the Ganga ghat. The whole basin is in a festive mood. It had transformed Illahabad* as a pristine bride preparing for her wedding. Do you remember Dubey?'  I curiously asked to see if he was still the same old Mr ABCD or an Americanized-Bumptious-Cunning-Desi. I called him Dubey from childhood before all this America happened.

(*Allahabad is a densely populated city in the state of Uttar Pradesh. It is colloquially called Illahabad. Official name as per Indian records is Prayagraj. A recent name change. We all still call it Illahabad than the official name)

'Of course, how will I forget? Those were the days...' he promptly sunk into the memories of our golden years of childhood. After more reminiscences from our salad days, I steered the conversation back to his surprise visit.

Lowering his voice, Dubey said, ' The celebration would be once I land there. After various tries, I have found myself a wife, a British one at that. I am so thrilled to show her the land her forefathers had plundered for many years. And guess what? We are planning to consummate our union on that very soil. Isn't that exciting? And on the auspicious occasion too. Double Dhamaka, I would say', he snickered.

With no words to respond to such an unbridled declaration, I only replied an uncomfortable, 'Sure' unwilling to sublimate his childlike enthusiasm. It was TMI for my humble ears.

Dubey has an unparalleled love for our country, as is the case with most expats who I know.

India represents not just a historic territory or a particular language or ethnic group, but a distinctive civilisation and has an almost consistent history of rituals and practices. It has a shared memory pool of knowledge that constitutes a living culture, a culture that survived a thousand years of invasion, conversion and colonialism. There is this inevitable sense of pride for the land and culture.

For people like Dubey, it is higher than an average Indian living in India. His way of looking at patriotism is almost symbolic and assumes the shape of idols, temples, shrines, and holy places. The mother is invoked —from the mother at home to Bharat Mata* (Mother India).