Last week, by an out-of-the-spur decision, a couple of my friends
and I decided to visit the nearby shopping complex. After chilling at the local
dunkin’ donut outlet, we decided to hit the department store having nothing
better to do, and I realized I still don’t know so much about myself.
Up until this point, I was a firm believer that I wasn’t the
sentimental type when it came to my home cuisine. I never look for Bengali food when I went out
to eat, and always want to try out new dishes. But this day, I saw a yogurt cup
with “misti doi” flavor and despite knowing it wasn’t the real deal, and only advertising
technique meant for gullible Bengalis, I ended up buying not one but two of
those.
I kept wondering why did I buy it, because it really didn’t
make any sense for me to buy, and yet, I couldn’t walk away without putting it
in my cart. And in the billing counter it finally hit me.
I bought it for the sentimental value. I bought it because
it reminded me of Sunday lunches with my parents and trips to sweet shops with my grandfather. It reminded me of home. And some part of me will always be
homesick. Not enough to make academic and professional decisions based on a
need to be close to home, but just enough to pick up random grocery items that
remind of home, and not being able to forget it for days, and write blog posts
about it.
