Dhoni Lives There
7 Jul
So I’m back home, sort of, in Bangkok — my beloved krung thep. There’s nothing quite like it.
We were in a restaurant on Sukhumvit a few days ago, with a cosmopolitan Indian family next to us. They had posh accents and a young boy in a Dhoni jersey. Expats, obviously. Eavesdropping was inevitable: it was a quiet restaurant, and they spoke of living in Brazil and Australia, having just moved to Bangkok.
“Papa, I don’t want to live here.”
He might grow up to be yet another displaced soul of South Asian origin.
His mother, looking amused, asked, “So where do you want to live, then?”
Without any hesitation, he shouted, punching the air with his arms, “INDIA!!!!!!”
“We played Hong Kong the other day, and you know who won? INDIA!!!! We won by 256 runs! 256! I want to live in my India. Dhoni lives there also.”
My inner desi was so proud, jai hind and all that; I miss my India so much I could have wept and hugged the boy. I want to go home. This time every year has always been about my India in the monsoon, loving (and getting wet) in Mumbai, Kolkata, and in my Meghalaya. Except this one. And I miss it like crazy.
To celebrate our bharat mata: art is Indian, especially the Sistine tandoori.
