BENGALURU: A visit to your hometown in your 30s is usually an exercise in conflicting emotions. Going back to the streets you grew up in makes you a better person – albeit for a few hours only! You speak to strangers. You try to be friendly, and look for a dustbin since you don’t wish to litter the place.
I grew up in a small town, and Tier-2 nostalgia works differently from Tier-1 nostalgia. People who grew up in Tier-1 cities are constantly complaining about development and trees being cut. It comes from the privilege of having grown up in a city that also had trees, parks, and gardens.
But people who grew up in Tier-2 towns are secretly glad that buildings, flyovers, and pavements are finally making their way to their hometown. That street lights and other amenities are now available when their parents step out in the evenings.
But nostalgia is a dangerous emotion. Wallow in it for too long, and it becomes depressing. As I took my scooter around my childhood colonies, I discovered the clear difference between capitalism and socialism. I grew up in two colonies. One was a colony where capitalism was allowed to flourish freely. The other area was a government colony where even putting up an extra gate required the permission of authorities.
Every time I roam around the private colony, I find myself straining to draw any connections. The buildings have all been torn down, and newer ones have been erected in their place. But when I roam around the government colony, I am struck by how little has changed, like the same cows have been roaming the streets for two decades now. The same monkeys seem to be making faces at me, and even the dogs wave their tails, as if recognising the puffs of ‘Z’ talcum powder that I would plaster myself with back in the day!
Going to your hometown in your 30s is a strange experience. All our lives, we read about the pain of leaving one’s hometown to go looking for work. Writers like Manoj Das and Anton Chekov remind us of the simple joys of our hometown. But we are an immigrant generation. As you read this column on a Wednesday afternoon, either you or your parents left your hometown at some point to earn money and make a name for yourself.
For many of us, our city of work signifies a certain freedom. The 30s are also an age when your friends begin to pass into the other realm. When that friend begins to knock on the old, wooden doors of memories, the conversation steers into how he was a nice guy, after all! Lanes that should have made you smile remind you of relationships past. Every childhood memory is marred with a sliver of regret.
After a few days in my hometown, I was reminded of why I left it in the first place. I began to feel claustrophobic as the town shut down every night by 9pm. The TVs that constantly played Hindi songs from the ’90s began to gnaw at my insides. The laidback nature of my hometown made me crave the chaos of my karmabhoomi.
If you think your city is too chaotic, go and live in your hometown for a few days. As I countdown the days when I go back to my little brown room of chaos, I am of the firm opinion that nostalgia should be packed into a bag and tucked deep into the attic. For memories, like old photographs, begin to rot after a point.
(The writer’s views are his own)