Some things remind ‘mee’ of home

For an expat population, clinging to the ways of their home countries is one way to stay true to their identity. It’s like comfort food. Often it is very simple, nourishing food, usually home-cooked, that presents some associations from childhood. The scent of zaatar on freshly baked bread, dalchawal, searing heat of paprika on everything in Nigeria, a lick of Marmite on toast in Oz, khichdi (kedgeree!), pasta, soup, or a piping hot cup of tea…

When people travel away from home, they carry talismans, memories and rituals. More so, when the children are born in a foreign land, most families draw on these memories to create the supportive net of a familiar environment. The memories weave the warp and weft of identity.

In fact, many of these people discover when they go back to their home countries that over a period of time, much of the normal has been relaxed or changed. I have seen expat parents rush about to find cultural and religious classes for their children. Some kids have to learn native dances. Some like mine were subjected to cultural immersion by atmosphere. Allow me to explain.

When my son was barely four years old, a Tamil couple — close friends — invited us for the naamkaran (naming ceremony) of their child. I leapt and decided that we would be the first guests to arrive and the very last to leave. The reason was quite simple. In India, when I was growing up, the multiculturalism was so much a part of the thrum of the country that you took it for granted. Only today I realise what a beautiful gift that was. We appropriated all festivals, and partook in customs of every faith — quite innocent, open and accepting. The world needs a lot

When people travel away from home, they carry talismans, memories and rituals. More so, when the children are born in a foreign land, most families draw on these memories to create the supportive net of a familiar environment. The memories weave the warp and weft of identity. more of that today.

Which was why I wanted our son to experience the ceremony. There are so many senses that are alive to an event. I wanted the smell of the mango leaves at the entrance, alongside the orange flame of marigold flowers bound into strings, the bunches of heady, exotic jasmine flowers that all the women would wear in their hair, the sibilant rustling sound of silks, the smell of the smoke arising from the havan, the incredible food cooked by the Mamis, the aunts of every description, maternal, paternal, of the milieu, the neighbourhood, the village — I almost swooned with anticipation.

But at some stage without quite knowing it, you become a part of the land where you live. You pick up the patois, along with a particular enjoyment of certain foods. So much so, that when you are away from your expat grounds, you long to get back to your favourite shawarma shop or kulfi-falooda corner. I have no idea when I started saying ‘can!’ instead of just a simple ‘yes’ in Singapore. “Could you help out as a parent-volunteer tomorrow?” “Can lah,” would be my enthusiastic response.

There is a large multi-generational Sikh community in Singapore. On a visit to the Gurudwara (Sikh temple) on Silat Road, I sat in the common dining hall and watched an elderly Sikh lady ask her niece to bring her a cup of tea. Among the samosas and pakoras and short eats at teatime, was a large vat of mee pok (noodles). Her snack of choice was what had evolved to be her new familiar comfort food: “I shall have a plate of mee.”