Dedicated to every NRI I know

I’m standing in an airport (again!), pen poised over yet another Immigration Form, and I come to the inevitable coloumn: Country of Residence. My hand pauses and my mind ponders. What do I fill into those little green boxes this time? I ask myself this question at least two times a year (in airports) and continuously throughout the year (in my mind). You’d think I’d know the answer by now!

No, I’m not a terrorist, making this a question I don’t want to answer. Nor a super cool espionage agent like a certain Mr. Bond, or the more recent rage, a Mr. Caffrey, who can have fun answering it. No such luck. I’m merely an NR. A Non – Resident. Indian. As an afterthought.

Oman, a tiny resort town like country situated at the bottom of the boot shaped landmass on the globe, which you were probably taught to call the Middle East. The place I wasn’t, but wish I was, born. The place I took my first steps, have my earliest memories, my first friends, my school, the houses I've lived in making them all homes, where I learned to love the sun, listen for the Azaan to mark time, and as an adult, possess a Driver’s License, a Bank Account and a Resident Card. The place I return to every vacation, despite having spent most of the last 4 years of my life in India.

I don’t work there. I own no property, have no citizenship and no claim to anything. It's sheer chance. Or fate. Or luck.

India was always a land of almost mystic proportions. (I know this sounds like the opening of a bad tourist guide, but it's true.) Cows in the middle of the road, choo – choo trains (fascinating to a 4 year old who’s only seen them in picture books), the noise, the dirt, the people, the traffic, all alien, which got a little less so each time. It was a place you went to every couple of years, went to a hundred different houses, and saw it, bit by bit, got a little more familiar with and knew what to expect, every time. But it was never home. My siblings and I would count down the days when we could get on a plane, and magically be transported back home. That’s what we call it. Always will.

Then, 18 years down the line from being the occasional tourist, I became a resident. As an adult, I’ve spent more than 4 years here now. Three in Bangalore, as an undergraduate student, and nearly two as a postgraduate student in Hyderabad. Undoubtedly, Bangalore defined some of the best years of my life. I made some close friends, discovered who I was, and what I could be, learned to stand up for and by myself, made my own decisions. Wouldn't trade those years for anything. And probably not for anywhere. But no matter what, there’s always that little part within me, which aches for home. And Hyderabad hasn't changed that.

By now you’re thinking, ah, the ranting of yet another NRI brat. Who can’t do without Starbucks and McDonalds, and 4 lane roads and designer stores every 200 yards. And you know what, it's true.

I do need all that in my life, it's not because some long lost uncle died and left me his fortune to spend as I please, but for me, that was what I grew up with. It defined me, my existence, the things I knew, the people I hung out with. I can respect how kids here catch buses by the time they’re 8 or 9, how they can cross a road while reading a magazine (still terrifying to me, I always need someone to hold my hand), the fact that they can walk down narrow alleyways like it's Times Square, and do it all with such élan. Have I tried it? Yup, all part of various friends' “Indianising Missions” over the years. Can I do it? Sure, if the need arises. And do I want to do it? There’s the million dollar question. No. I can, and if I have to, I will, But I don’t want to. The hustle and bustle, the noise, the colours, the streets, the people, (everything that makes India so alive, so colourful) is what I can’t handle. Perhaps it's an individual thing. Or maybe it's just an NRI thing, akin to still being unable to drink non bottled water.

I am not anti – Indian. Never have been, never will be. Nor am I ashamed of it. I take great pride in being able to speak 2 Indian languages (and be literate in them) and am learning a third. I'm merely someone who's been in Muscat since I was 2 months old. All the way till I was 18. I love that place, I love the order, the cleanliness, I even love how boring it is (I’m absolutely willing to admit India is way, way more colourful, interesting, and even psychedelic than Muscat (or actually, anywhere in the gulf), will be. All I'm saying is (because I've been there my whole childhood and teen years) I can’t relate very well, or be very comfortable with,India, its crowds and noise. I simply prefer Muscat and its quiet and  I'll always be thankful I have it as part of my life, as an option.

India is beautiful, and different in a way unmatched by anywhere else in the world, I’m sure. It has an aura that’s all its own, untouched. There’s always something new to discover, it never fails to surprise. I love visiting India. It's exotic and beautiful, just in a very different way from anywhere in the world, and yes, it does take a while to grow on you. It's simply that I will always consider Muscat home, and couldn’t imagine an existence where I don’t have it as a base always. That's it, nothing anti - Indian. 

I am a Malayalee, genetically. I am Indian, according to my passport. And I am Omani, in my heart.

This piece is simply a product of a hundred different thoughts buzzing around my own head, long conversations with friends here and back home, and I suppose, a response to every “camel-racing-oil-well-owning-Arab” joke I have been subject to.

Cheers till next time!