Patriotism is a much vaunted term in India. For a country that has endured for centuries, but took years to recover from what should have been a mere blip in its existence, the rule of the British, patriotism has sustained India through constant threat of disintegration due to religion, invasion, and internecine conflict. It is a quality that is imparted to one in childhood, with the same degree of intensity and dedication that is reserved for religious and moral education, reinforced by singing of the national anthem, the celebration of Republic Day and Independence Day as well as the knuckle biting and jubilation for cricket matches that keep the nation on the edge of its seat. Having spent most of my life in Calcutta, India, (or Kolkata as it's now known) I have absorbed that pride, that passion for a country that I wasn't even born in. Unlike common perceptions of patriotism, I would like to point out that this is not an unquestioning, blind feeling of attachment, but rather a fondness and a certain degree of tolerance for what India stands for, the idea of India.
I haven't been back for two and half years. During that time, my identity has undergone subtle remakings, I am now married (indeed, this sojourn is to celebrate a second instalment of the wedding), on the way to completing my PhD, and feel more at ease in my skin, a blessed advantage of growing older. I am more mature, less of a control freak, and have learned to enjoy life rather than stressing over its trajectory.
And India has changed too. Dispatches from my parents tell me of a Calcutta dotted with shopping malls and multiplexes, meccas to new wealth from increased globalisation and trade. The phenomenon of the call centre is now ubiquitous, churning out young hopeful Indians speaking with an accent (and oddly, possesssing names) more redolent of the American midwest than the Deccan plateau. They harbour dreams of upward mobility, having a car, and a life out of a glossy magazine, or nearer home, like those portrayed in Bollywood movies, that invariably depict either the very very rich, or the very very poor.
And this, I fear, is not my India. What charmed me about India, after spending considerable amounts of time in first world countries, was its reality, its originality. Its lack of homogeneity. Its unapologetic unabashedness for being what it was, who it was. But now, with the steady march of globalisation, I'm not sure how it feels. The urban centres, from what I can gather are becoming more and more anonymous, both in personality as well as appearance. Patriotism itself has become commodified, an emotional vein that advertisers can tap into, to sell anything from tyres to washing detergent.
I am British; my passport says so. But I feel Indian, and always have. Patriotism is unfashionable in the west; it seems almost not to exist in Britain, except either in a right-wing, extremist way. If I were to find that the India I believe defines me no longer exists, then I will feel, for the first time in my life, in a very real way, homeless. I'm hoping that this won't be the case.