On Belonging vs. belongings
- Chiteisri
- May 1, 2022
- 6 min read
Updated: Sep 12, 2022
When it comes to my 'roots' - am all branches! An essay about finding meaning, identity and a sense of home in my innate rootlessness.
“So, where are you from exactly?”
One would assume that since I have 30+ years of a lived experience as a walking, talking human being on this planet – I ought to have a well-rehearsed and widely acceptable answer to this simple question.
But every time I try to give a reply that is a single sentence (E.g. “I am from Bangalore only!”) whilst silently praying that the Inquisition ends there, I get a bunch of raised eyebrows in response.
Over the years, I have understood that the raised eyebrows could either mean surprise and mild doubts or skepticism and total disbelief. And often, the age and gender of the person before me factors into how quickly and how high those eyebrows really go!
One cannot fault anyone though. Because it is indeed a paradoxical existence that, the two most difficult questions to ask me are:
- What is your name? and
- Where are you from?
Because, when it comes down to a question of identity – I have only found answers in the moments when I have embraced my rootlessness. And by simply letting go of whatever preconceived notion I had, of who I thought I was.
Many, many years ago, my beloved Aaboo (my mother's mother) once declared in some family gathering – “I have no roots, I am all branches!” Memorable as it was, I didn’t quite understand that pronouncement as a child.
But today – I repeat and claim it for myself. “No roots, all branches!”
Hiya world! I’m back and literally picking up the pieces from where I left my last essay. The one that was the only one <sigh!> I previously wrote this year, about ‘The Big F – on festivals, functions and Family’.
That blogpost ended like this:
"The identity crisis that I faced as a child from the lack of belonging, is perhaps my biggest strength today. By belonging nowhere – I arrive at a new place and to a new family and then say to myself “I am now here!”
And while that conclusion was loved by many, I did receive a few texts from some of my readers to elaborate on it a bit more.
So, here’s a whole lot more.
Notably, the quest for ‘belonging’ has been the background music to my entire life so far. And predictably, it may remain so for the rest of my life as well.
Belonging. I have looked up several definitions of this word. The simplest one is ‘something that belongs’. Although, I preferred the definition offered by the Cambridge Dictionary:
“a feeling of being happy or comfortable as part of a particular group and having a good relationship with the other members of the group because they welcome you and accept you.”
I read the words and my inner monologue beings:
“It all seems rather possessive…?”
“Oh! Possession is a keyword in the definition. Interesting!”
“Be - long. Does ‘be’ imply the simple state of being or existing? Or being in a place or situation?”
“And then “for long”? Long enough to leave something behind, or make and receive an impact?”
“Where do I belong? I mean, really!?”
It took a long, long time for me to admit aloud that I ‘belong’ nowhere.
Even as I say it more easily to anyone today, there is still that fluttering butterfly-in-my-stomach. That towards the end of a stranger’s polite or inquisitive curiosity, there will be a rejection of the salad-bowl of an identity, that is mine.
I was born in Ahmedabad. My parents are Gujarati (mother) and Bihari (father), but I was raised by my mother and maternal grandmother called Aaboo, and spent all my formative years in Karnataka. Kannada is a language that I speak far better than what ought to be my native tongues (Gujarati and Maithili).
And Aaboo, who was my parent and best friend for many years, was a motley identity herself – part Gujarati, part Assamese and 100% unconventional.
Growing up, I never spent more than 2 years in a single house, and the first place I actually resided for a consecutive 5 years was Pune, because my undergraduate degree was 5 long years. I went to 9 different schools – one of which included a two-year stint in Dubai. Later, through further studies, marriage and divorce – Delhi became a city I became habituated with. In pursuit of a higher education and work opportunities, I also lived in the cities of Singapore and London.
In each of these places, there have been some people who have “welcomed and accepted me”. People are that secret ingredient that make the places you live in, feel like home.
But each place also has a rhythm and a beat of its own. And the longer you stay, it seems like those beats get remixed into your background music – and then the rhythm flows anew. There is no place that I have lived and left which has not impacted me. Awkwardly, I have barely left a mark on any of these places – so how does that entitle me to a sense of ‘belonging’?
But then there are ‘belongings’ – that is more definitive a term, as “a person’s movable things, effects or possessions”.
Recently, I read a wonderful book titled ‘The Weight of a Cherry Blossom’ by Shruti Buddhavarapu that was heartbreakingly relatable. Shruti’s words are all hers, of course, but there were moments when I realised – “This is (also) my story!”
Her book is divided into two parts:
- “Weight: Stories and incidents that both make my centre of gravity strong, and things that weigh me/a woman down."
- "Weightlessness: Learning to let go, being buoyed, rootless. Finding meaning in the rootlessness.”
In the book's preface where her context on ‘weight’ and ‘weightlessness’ is described, the weightlessness section further clarifies -
“Rooting a sense of belonging and home through objects and items and instead.”
And there it was!
Remarkable as it may seem, my own identity could be found in a Venn diagram between the quest for ‘belonging’ and the foraging and acquisition of my ‘belongings’.
Last week, I found myself to be a part of a travelling wedding party. I was one in a group of 14 people that drove north to a smaller district in the state of Karnataka, accompanying the groom and his actual family.
Gautam, who I consider a part of my family now, got engaged in a ceremony that was gargantuan. It was attended by around 30,000 people. With temperatures soaring, at ~40 degrees centigrade, the scale, the food, the shifting dialects, the rituals involved – all of it was overwhelming, but thoroughly enriching as an experience.
And in that ocean of chaos and the unknown, I found my little island of calm and belonging.
At any point, if someone glanced over at me – there were three things that I carried around which were unique items.
A book that has such a riveting tale that I need put in reminders on my phone to alert me when to put it down, my trustee reusable water bottle from Chumbak that says “Work hard, travel often” and a nondescript jhola (cloth bag) that held these two items perfectly, as it remained slung over my shoulder. My identity gets cemented as the girl who sneakily reads in a crowd, travels too often and loathes plastic.
Maybe someone observed that, or maybe that is the identity that I hoped could translate to anyone, just watching me silently. (There were many!)
Either way, something got rooted in, on that momentous day - a sense of belonging rooted in my belongings! And as imperfect and impermanent as my belongings are, so is my identity.
REFERENCES:
Buddhavarapu, Shruti. The Weight of a Cherry Blossom. Rupa, 2019.
Belonging. Cambridge Dictionary. (n.d.). Retrieved May 1, 2022, from https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/belonging
Note: As I wrote this, I was deeply influenced by a wonderful book listed above - The Weight of a Cherry Blossom by Shruti Buddhavarapu. All the words above are mine and I have quoted any direct references made this to book. However, if there are any further quotes and similarities here to the book, it is entirely unintended.
As mentioned, Shruti's story and mine on the aspect of shifting geographies and rootlessness is eerily similar - therefore, I acknowledge her book as a massive point of reference!
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Warmly,
Chiteisri