Yearning for Home: A Gorkha's Journey Through Memories and Flavors

I am a Gorkha student from Kalimpong, currently studying in Chandigarh for the past two years. Despite the cultural similarities with the Bengali community and being part of West Bengal, I often feel out of place. I don't identify as Bengali or Nepali (from Nepal) but a Gorkha.I find myself yearning for the familiar tastes of home within those several hundred people who have less cultural similarity as mine.

In the small space I call my house, I try to recreate the authentic flavors that remind me of home. That simple plate of rice, kaalo dal, and gundruk ko achar that my mom used to cook while I played for hours, returning to the warmth and comfort of her meals. The tangy, spicy pickle she made just for me, and the spicy dalley my dad added for a kick that always left me in awe. The mornings when I craved chocolate roti (fapar) just for its cocoa color. It was all so naive and simple.

I remember sitting for hours outside, studying on a mat in the little veranda, while my mom babysat beside me, cutting raw turmeric and staining her hands yellow. The strong, pungent smell lingered around the house for days, even making my rice smell of turmeric.
My maternal side is from Nepal, and my parents look like typical Nepali/Gorkhali parents. But there was one day each year when they would dress up: Dad in a traditional daura sural with a Dhaka ko topi and Mom in a gunyu choli, with a long chadke tilhari and something shiny like a crescent moon in her hair, tied with colorful strands of lacha. During Dashai, we have a tradition of visiting elders to receive blessings. It was the most exciting time for me, as I would meet all my favorite cousins and enjoy my favorite delicacies.

As a Kalimpongian, my mom would always bring koseli (gifts for visitors), like sweet milk lollipops that all the kids would devour in an instant, kilos of sugar, and several packets of beans (masyang dal, pailo dal). My grandmother would only light up when she saw the selroti, finally happy that her dear daughter was home.

Now, when I return home, everything has changed. There are no friends, no late-night snacks of spicy current past midnight, no chatpatey (wai wai) with cousins. But what remains constant for me are the spices, the familiar language, and the fresh tea gardens, even with different faces.As my parents have grown older, the taste of their food has changed but now I find myself longing for the same aroma and taste from my own dinner. In that one alley that smells like my mom's mutton with hundreds of spices, I search for that sense of home,that familar taste of home.

Sitting in that dark,corner room i sometime realise maybe it's not the home I long for, nor the food or the spices but the memories and thousand smiles wooven to it.

By Priyanka Neupaney