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222 pages, Kindle Edition
Published June 23, 2025
I hear a question these days, people asking: Where are you from? The reply is always one or two words, always inaccurate. Nobody is from one place.
There is no sense of belonging or welcome. They’ve lived Elsewhere too long: they’ve become Elsewhereans.This book is a collection of the disjointed reminiscences of the author, as well as the fictionalised reminiscences of his parents and relatives. The one common theme binding them as they flit across time and space, is migration. Whether it be the journalist settling abroad as part of his profession or the gardener walking across a Covid-struck India to his faraway homeland or the penniless refugee grubbing in the dirt to make a living, they share something common - the great Elsewhere.
In the pageantry of the island, unfolding district by district, Ammu experiences Elsewhere as a spiritual calling. Among crowds of people of every race and religion, she knows internationalism as the true nationalism and freedom as the only patriotism.Jeet's family, including himself, comes across as pretty dysfunctional, comprising brilliant but troubled people. Of course, the author warns us in the beginning that the story is only partially true; but that is the case with all biographies. They are part truth, part false memory, part lies. But whatever be the veracity, the story is compelling. And the language is poetic.
Now it seems to Ammu she has no home, for home is no longer a city or a country and the people in them, but the rooms of the houses in which she’s lived. The big bedroom she shared with her sisters at Anniethottam. The teacher’s quarters, two cots to a room, in Alwaye. The small front room in Mahim that served as both living and dining room, the city outside, just steps away from the floor she shared with her new husband. The balcony that ran the length of the apartment by the Arabian Sea on Cadell Road. The front room of the apartment at Pataliputra Housing Colony that became a meeting place for students. She’d taken care of the children there while George was in jail. The small living room of the apartment in Shirin Building, near Navy Nagar in Colaba. The bedroom of their first apartment in Hong Kong, at Arts Mansion. The kitchen of the second on McDonnell Road, where she thought of tearing into a hundred pieces the picture of the Vietnamese woman. The view from the apartment in New York, twelve floors up, of the canyons of Seventy-Ninth and York. Sirens at any hour of the night. The large front room of the first apartment she bought in Bombay. A six-inch view of the sea. Palm trees outside the fourth-floor window. The sunken living room of the first house they owned in Bangalore. The sunlit bedroom and garden of the second. The jackfruit tree and the butter fruit.We are our memories - 'true' and 'false' have no meaning. Neither has space and time. It's one continuous experience, the transitory soul, the anatman, changing from moment to moment. A human being is not an entity but a process which unfolds in time. And 'Elsewhere' is an illusion.
The remembered rooms unfold in her mind like pictures from an album with sheets of tissue between the pages. They bring vivid sensations that leave her grateful and surprised. She traces herself through the rooms of her life, opening seamlessly one into another, forward and back. So, on a rainy day in Mamalassery, when she steps indoors from the porch, it is to the cold muted light of a northern country. It seems correct then that these memories have lost their sting and can no longer cause hurt or happiness. They are only receptacles to return to her the past.