Nombu in London

Amidst all this homesickness, quasi-rootlessness and general drifting of the being, I read Shoefiend’s (characteristically) wonderful post on Varalakshmi Nombu in London.

Where does one go for coconuts? What if one cannot find coconuts? After all this is London – I’m more likely to bump in to a bushel of blowsy roses than a palm tree.

I admire Shoefiend’s will. My version of celebrating festivals is to turn to Carnatic Classical, and maybe have a watery version of something. Perhaps it has something to do with what religion or ritual means to some of us. There are some who find deep comfort and a sense of homecoming in rituals. I momentarily feel that. A similar warm fuzzy feeling of connecting with the galaxy of waxyfaced ancestors, sarcastic but well meaning aunts and of stealing food meant for gods. However, some of us also find a lot of disillusionment in rituals. It’s a reminder of all those times when behaviour standards shot up, when family came together – leading to numerous comparisons, the awkwardness of growing up when nothing you did was cute anymore and the sharp eyes of aunts (aunts, always aunts.) that taunt your very being. Rituals were like punctuation marks while growing up. Very painful ones at that.

It’s when you see everyone else immersed in faith and the routine, that your own disenchantment becomes even more amplified. I experiences rushes between these two states of being. Homecoming, and a sudden sobering reminder of teenage faithlessness.

I went mad in search for coconut in London. Even when I found a coconut, I found myself trembling with anxiety. How on earth do I break it in my kitchen. I don’t even have a kitchen really. An open plan cooking area that spills onto the living room. Really, where and how do I break it. What if it chips off something and the Landlord throws a fit? And do I have that blessed coconut scraper in the first place? I looked at dessicated coconut. It smelt like coconut oil, with none of that fluffy goodness of fresh coconut. You begin to wonder. What sort of a country finds enough coconut for its Pina Coladas, but none for making some food for the powers that be.

So, I turn back to Music. In Carnatic music, I find all that unalloyed pleasure of being home, without having to actually live by its rules.