Eyes

From the time I was born or maybe from the time I can remember I was
told one thing. It was repeated to me often that the city we lived in
was an adopted home. The country we stayed in was our home by default.
Our real house was in the adjoining country which we had been forced to
leave. In that hallowed land had lived my forefathers and practiced the
family trade. My ancestors rose from the soil of that place, ate its
produce and were interred in the ground after death. Naturally that
place was sacrosanct. We were all to remember a few things very
clearly. No matter how successful we became in our adopted country we
had to consider ourselves the descendants of a line that had its roots
in the neighboring nation. Of course nothing needed to be done
externally-we could be as modern as we wanted. But within the family we
had to remain connected to the past. Customs handed down over
generations were to be observed in detail. The ladies who had married
into the family from outside often took the lead role in upkeep of
family traditions. The continuity of the established ideas had to be
ensured at any cost. This led to a strange situation. My grandfather
was the last person to visit our original homeland and he knew a few
things about the place. My father had been born in the present
residence of the family and had had a western education. But the times
were such that he remain greatly attached to our former homeland.
It was under these circumstances that an opportunity offered itself. My
father was associated with a multinational bank and his employers were
opening a branch near our ancestral village. Due to political reasons
visits to the country had been restricted. Now things were changing. My
father had been asked to assist in the opening of the branch. My
parents thought it was a great opportunity to visit the land that
grandfather had left in search of a better life. So air tickets were
bought and clothes purchased. I was fifteen years old and to me it was
another outing.
On the way to the airport and on the short flight my father related
stories about our ancestral village. He told us that our ancestors
lived in thatched huts in a big green field and that all around the
field there were six ponds full of the most delicious fish. Our village
was surrounded by a river and to get to it one had to take a boat. All
manner of men and women bathed in the river and thus the place had no
bathrooms. There were no cars, everything had to be reached by foot.
Though I had had high ideas about our homeland I was beginning to lose
respect. Still I believed there was something that made our village
great.
The flight to our destination was smooth. On arrival we checked into a
good hotel and made arrangements for the journey into our village. Next
morning we were on our way.
Indeed the roads were poor and at places there was no road at all. We
crossed several rivers always on strong ferryboats. A single crossing
across a very wide river took two hours. After two full days on the
road we arrived at the river near our ancestral village. As the boat
started towards our village my heart started pounding like mad. Soon we
arrived. I was disappointed. Our village had no roads, no school, no
electricity. People still bathed in the open and there was no medical
dispensary. Yet when we reached the site of our property something
happened. It was an open ground now and the ponds were dirty. Yet as
soon as our car stopped there was a buzz all around. Men and women,
some of whom looked like us descended upon us with enthusiastic faces.
Someone was my brother, some my sister and another was my uncle. They
were all my OWN people, my family and they were pleased to have me
among them. I was recognized as my grandfather's son's son, part of a
long line who had lived here almost forever. At last I had no doubt I
had come to the right place. I had come home.