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Annie Zaidi explores the meaning of 'home' and 'belonging' through the experience of travel, in her memoir Bread, Cement, Cactus.
Annie Zaidi explores the meaning of ‘home’ and ‘belonging’ through the experience of travel, in her memoir Bread, Cement, Cactus.
I am a Canadian-born, Delhi-raised girl, who attended international schools, developed a rather discernible accent and have suffered an even more embarrassing lack of fluency in Hindi. (which I’m working on!).
The idea of home for me has always been difficult.
Much more than being a memoir, Bread Cement Cactus is an exploration of the meaning of home and belonging from unexpected angles which intersect with author, Annie Zaidi’s own personal experiences of the two often elusive concepts.
In this book, she explores these themes through a variety of different places – both physical and philosophical – from the Garāsia, Bhīl and other tribes of Rajasthan, to the people of Azamgarh, to the lost intellectuals of Allahabad/Prayagraj, to those who pass from this world.
When does an immigrant truly belong? What happens when they start belonging more than those who were there before?
She contrasts two very different scenarios of immigrants and belonging.
Mumbai is a city of immigrants, and yet there is a strong nativism that lies beneath the surface, and those from the outside are sometimes rather unwelcome.
On a personal level, as someone who is an immigrant to Mumbai myself, I can certainly identify with some of the things she speaks of – being an outsider, a single woman, and from the North.
Contrast this to the situation of the Garāsia living around the industrial town of JK Purum, whose home has been invaded in the name of profit, and we can see how two situations that seem quite similar at first can raise the same questions but be quite different.
Home – the meaning of home, and belonging, in the sense that Zaidi describes it, is also intertwined with power. Even if a certain population was here first, if the tides of dominance change, for example for certain Adivasi communities, their home as they know it, may cease to exist. They may become second class citizens in the place they belong.
The place where you came from is intrinsically linked to where you belong, but when population dynamics and the tides of history turn, particularly in light of things as recent as the Partition, but even those as ancient as the Aryan migration, those ideas of who is at home where, is prone to shift.
The meaning of home and belonging, while migrating, is therefore a slippery concept, for those who migrate, for those that stay behind and for those whose homeland accumulates new populations.
Racial, religious and gender identity have and continue to play a strong role in belonging and the meaning of home.
Zaidi examines the plight of Indian Muslims, and the impact of the partition, and themes of interfaith love, and the place, or rather the lack thereof for women – not belonging or welcome with their parents, nor wholly with their husband’s family
Our divorce from history and re-colouring of the past in ways that seek to dilute the diversity that is such a major part of our heritage, can also be in a way, a way that home shifts, changes and morphs. If we cannot rely on belonging to what we came from, when it is recast in misleading light, what, then can we rely on?
Language is another dimension in which people belong or do not belong – and the politics of both Sanskrit (and the subsequent Sanskritization of culture) as well as the largely political growing anti-Urdu sentiments, play a role in shifting the definitions of home for many.
The idea that the language of Sanskrit could have come from outside India is as threatening as the idea that Urdu is intrinsically an Indian language.
Religious persecution is another area where power and politics seep into ideas of belonging. Zaidi touches on ideas of purity and origins. An interesting angle she examines with regard to this, is that of love – particularly interfaith love and marriage.
The idea of purity as a potent and oppressive tool, and how if you allow it to become diluted, particularly by a force as moving as love, you lose the power to hold movements together.
The common thread running through many of these, perhaps with the exception of death, is that of “other-ness”. Zaidi explores this as she finds herself in varying spaces sometimes occupying that of the politically/economically dominant, and other times, that of the repressed or “other”.
The flow of her thoughts and ideas is peppered with personal anecdotes, learning and experiences, and it feels almost like we are on this journey of her life with her, experiencing all the meanings of home alongside her. It is a brilliant, incredibly moving experience.
She also examines the angle of death – which, according to the Sufi faith, is the final return home. Where are we born, and where do we die? Are these places we belong?
Although bread, cement and cactus are decidedly physical things, the home that Zaidi finds and builds for us is much more metaphysical and intangible.
The other unintended side effect of reading this book is she quotes a lot of interesting reading material, some of which was already in my TBR, but some of which is new. Of course, I wasn’t really short of books, but I’m always happy to add more!
It is a slow build, particularly in the beginning, so if you find yourself struggling in the first chapter – stick with it. It comes together beautifully and it’s worth the wait.
If you would like to pick up a copy of Bread, Cement, Cactus: A Memoir of Belonging and Dislocation by Annie Zaidi, use our affiliate links at Amazon India, and at Amazon US.
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Image source: a still form the film Jalebi, book cover Amazon
Mira Saraf was born in Canada, grew up in New Delhi, and went to a British School half her life, and an American school the other half which has, as a result, made her grammar read more...
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Women today don’t want to be in a partnership that complicates their lives further. They need an equal partner with whom they can figure out life as a team, playing by each other’s strengths.
We all are familiar with that one annoying aunty who is more interested in our marital status than in the dessert counter at a wedding. But these aunties have somehow become obsolete now. Now they are replaced by men we have in our lives. Friends, family, and even work colleagues. It’s the men who are worried about why we are not saying yes to one among their clans. What is wrong with us? Aren’t we scared of dying alone? Like them?
A recent interaction with a guy friend of mine turned sour when he lectured me about how I would regret not getting married at the right time. He lectured that every event in our lives needs to be completed within a certain timeframe set by society else we are doomed. I wasn’t angry. I was just disappointed to realize that annoying aunties are rapidly doubling in our society. And they don’t just appear at weddings or family functions anymore. They are everywhere. They are the real pandemic.
Let’s examine this a little closer.
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