A mosquito's annoying symphony filled my right ear as I sat, sweating and entirely jetlagged, waiting for the luggage belt to recover from a power cut in Chhatrapati Shivaji international airport. Half asleep, my hand smacked my ear.
Australia is essentially a country of migrants: some came a few years ago, some a few decades ago, while others a few generations ago. It is not the question where they come from, but it is important, how seamlessly and quickly they integrate and assimilate with the mainstream over time and contribute to nation-building.
The car ride from the airport to my grandmother’s home is blanketed with a thick air of nostalgia because apparently the streets rekindle a spark in my parents’ souls.
To have truly appreciated the magnitude of such an activity required one to extract themselves from where they were.
"So what do you do nowadays?" an acquaintance of mine asked me in one of my husband's usual cocktail parties at his friends place.
Food has an association with recovery from sickness, be it chicken soup or the humble khichdi.
The day one lands as an immigrant in Canada, a dreamy situation starts developing.
Sometimes, being an NRI can leave you stunned with some very amusing conversations. That being said, I have always believed that every foreign land comes with its own set of facts and myths attached.
Good sense has prevailed ultimately; the potential and contributions of Indian-Australian community have been realised finally.
One of the domestic habits we have slowly begun to forego the world over is this inconspicuous sharing of our daily nutrition as a family.
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