Why I Love You, Always

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I know we are a poor country and yet when I look at the people from the west, the clean, slick neighborhoods with well paved roads and quiet lanes, I can’t help but feel sad for them.

In India, life is thrilling everyday. You savor the small pleasures of life, a good slice of pizza, getting an auto that runs on the meter, relishing on some unhealthy roadside savories, that are getting fried spicy and crunchy by the minute.

Living with your family is the norm. They are irritating, but so fun. Dinners are at one table. Your naughty nieces and nephews are always around, so annoying, but fill your life with so much love. There are so many people. And people are open to other people. We make fast friends during the lengthy bus rides at summers tide and rickety train rides with nothing to do.

 

Our beaches are not the cleanest. But they are so bright, colorful and full of life. No, not bikini clad brights, but colors from the different game stalls, the fish stalls, the bajji stalls, making every kind of vegetable you’ve ever hated, likeable. It’s like a little carnival in itself.

When we were at boarding schools. Our hostels were crowded and it’s no surprise considering the population of our country, but fun was never out of the vocabulary. Late night gossips on who’s dating who as we huddle around the room, sharing food packages from our parents with the other, each bite so precious as the food we receive is none too exhilarating. Homeworks are done side by side and tests requires crowding up in one room, teaching the other what the other knows.

We love dancing but the majority of our steps are done without sips. I’m not against drinking but too much of the world misses out on what fun prancing on the floor can be with a clear, crisp mind and laughters that are not induced by intoxicants. You’ll find it everywhere, in marriges, in festival celebrations, where the clan from the oldest to the youngest gather and join in the merry making. Just good food and some good ol’ dancing.

But nothing compares to the energy us Indians have for talking. Take for example travelling, a recent trip I made to Pune earned me eight friends just on the journey itself. Two men at the ticket booth, chatting up a conversation on recent political happenings and about our destinations and why we’re going, and then at the train I meet this lovely family, the mother is a chatter, full of jokes and stories, who entertains us the whole journey. The children are not any less loving. Earrings and a ring are what they depart me with, in the course of one night.

And that’s why even though I get angry, I protest and hate, like a child throwing a tantrum to his parents, with every bit of my soul, I do and will always love India.

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P.S: I know this would almost come off as a sarcastic post after my goodbye letter. But let this post assure and let know anyone who’ve read that letter that I don’t hate India, im merely a child crying for attention. And I’ll keep crying when necessary 🙂

Image source – Here, here and here

 

 

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