Now, don't get me wrong here. It is not as if We are on the brink of poverty here in the U.S, but by all standards, our existence in America as of now is going along the lines of what I would call 'necessary minimalism'
If comfort is to be gauged by the number of material possessions that aid our life and make it more comfortable, we are somewhere between sliding down a razor on your balls and having a drop of hot oil explode on your hand. But then, you may say, what are material comforts, but the things that you are made to think you need but do not actually need in order to live a comfortable life.
Mom, driven by a very understandable need to feel at home in this land, is expressing her concerns by proposing to buy various kinds of home furniture, a venture that I veto every time she brings it up. It is true that we own only 3 pieces of furniture, an old 4-seat dining table that serves as computer table, ironing board, writing desk and general cluttering area; along with a drawer chest and a flimsy bookcase. We do not own beds, and we sleep on the floor, which is fine by me, given that the ceiling is only 2.3 meters/8 feet high, and lying on the floor gives me a sense of space. My own room is threadbare, the only bit of furniture being the aforementioned flimsy bookcase. I do not clean up my room often, and I let the deitritus of my life, such as computer wipes, chocolate wrappers(food obsession of the moment) apple cores and banana peels lie about. I have no pride in my room, and I do not decorate it in any way. I consider it to be mainly a sort of holding cell, a storage for my tired body for the night, and a container for all the things that I do possess. It has no soul, no memories, it's walls have heard no secrets whispered, and I see it as a waste of time and effort to infuse life into this cardboard box of a room. It is for these reasons that I always manage to dissuade mom from trying to settle down into a life of three-seater sofas and upholstered chairs. I really hate to selfishly shoot down my mother's recurring ideas about buying some more furniture, but I do so also because I know what a precarious financial position we are in, and despite the fact that there are considerable savings lying in bank accounts, I can foresee that this period of difficulty will not pass soon, and the costs of living are only going to rise. The only possible break I can estimate is the hope that Pop will be able to find a job here soon, and thus contribute to the household income. By that time, my time here will have drawn to an end, and my parents will be able to chase the dream of a better life unfettered by my rootlessness.
Rootlessness is the perfect word to describe my condition. In the span of five months, I have not forged one lasting friendship, or casual friendship, or any interest of the romantic sort. I have not let the essence of Americana infuse into me, mainly because you need to have social contact in order to do that. I do not know my neighbour's name, and I have not come up with any sound reason to stay in America, save for the fact that I can make more money here by working 5 days a week, than a month in India. It could be said that I have deliberately decided not to break soil and sprout new buds, but in my defence, It is so because I see no reason to do so when I know I have to go back to India in a few months. My existence here is buoyed only by taking comfort in the scraps of my earnings that I have saved, and the role that this meagre sum will play in my later life.
That, and the fact that you can buy some really high-quality hand tools and knives (the focal point of my non-essential expenditure) over here.
Music - AIR-mike mills, AIR-venus (from the album AIR - Talkie Walkie)
If comfort is to be gauged by the number of material possessions that aid our life and make it more comfortable, we are somewhere between sliding down a razor on your balls and having a drop of hot oil explode on your hand. But then, you may say, what are material comforts, but the things that you are made to think you need but do not actually need in order to live a comfortable life.
Mom, driven by a very understandable need to feel at home in this land, is expressing her concerns by proposing to buy various kinds of home furniture, a venture that I veto every time she brings it up. It is true that we own only 3 pieces of furniture, an old 4-seat dining table that serves as computer table, ironing board, writing desk and general cluttering area; along with a drawer chest and a flimsy bookcase. We do not own beds, and we sleep on the floor, which is fine by me, given that the ceiling is only 2.3 meters/8 feet high, and lying on the floor gives me a sense of space. My own room is threadbare, the only bit of furniture being the aforementioned flimsy bookcase. I do not clean up my room often, and I let the deitritus of my life, such as computer wipes, chocolate wrappers(food obsession of the moment) apple cores and banana peels lie about. I have no pride in my room, and I do not decorate it in any way. I consider it to be mainly a sort of holding cell, a storage for my tired body for the night, and a container for all the things that I do possess. It has no soul, no memories, it's walls have heard no secrets whispered, and I see it as a waste of time and effort to infuse life into this cardboard box of a room. It is for these reasons that I always manage to dissuade mom from trying to settle down into a life of three-seater sofas and upholstered chairs. I really hate to selfishly shoot down my mother's recurring ideas about buying some more furniture, but I do so also because I know what a precarious financial position we are in, and despite the fact that there are considerable savings lying in bank accounts, I can foresee that this period of difficulty will not pass soon, and the costs of living are only going to rise. The only possible break I can estimate is the hope that Pop will be able to find a job here soon, and thus contribute to the household income. By that time, my time here will have drawn to an end, and my parents will be able to chase the dream of a better life unfettered by my rootlessness.
Rootlessness is the perfect word to describe my condition. In the span of five months, I have not forged one lasting friendship, or casual friendship, or any interest of the romantic sort. I have not let the essence of Americana infuse into me, mainly because you need to have social contact in order to do that. I do not know my neighbour's name, and I have not come up with any sound reason to stay in America, save for the fact that I can make more money here by working 5 days a week, than a month in India. It could be said that I have deliberately decided not to break soil and sprout new buds, but in my defence, It is so because I see no reason to do so when I know I have to go back to India in a few months. My existence here is buoyed only by taking comfort in the scraps of my earnings that I have saved, and the role that this meagre sum will play in my later life.
That, and the fact that you can buy some really high-quality hand tools and knives (the focal point of my non-essential expenditure) over here.
Music - AIR-mike mills, AIR-venus (from the album AIR - Talkie Walkie)
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