When the world chokes on nostalgia

Some call me a merchant of nostalgia. Excuse me, that's not true. Having lived in 30 different homes in three countries far and wide, I'm not sure if that sobriquet holds much water. One cannot be nostalgic about every moment he or she has lived. If that's the case, my life would have long been buried under an Everest of memories, more painful than beautiful. Why do my words then cry, shout and bleed nostalgia, some ask, passing their instant judgment: "Nostalgia is the province of the Malayali and you aren't any different."
I never intended to celebrate nostalgia in my columns. Nor did I exploit the sentiment because nostalgia sells. Any fallback on my life stories in my writings wasn't to glorify the past but to justify my intellection. It's human to remember what we once thought were the good things from the past, but when we take a second look at the past through a mature perspective, we realise they're a lot different than what we once thought. Things we once believed were romantic could turn out to be absurd because, in the journey of life, tastes change, views change, and the world changes.
It isn't a secret that, once upon a time, I longed to time-travel to all my youthful follies, but I don't fancy them anymore. I have grown strong enough to sever the umbilical code called nostalgia, which was once considered a psychiatric disorder that could cause anxiety, insomnia and depression. While most people go back to their roots to recharge, I look to the future to reinvigorate myself.
Nostalgia revolves around the blind belief that the grass used to be greener. While experts believe that nostalgia is a bittersweet potion that promises both comfort and distress, I have only savoured the acrid taste of it. The feeling of nostalgia has an ingrained sense of melancholy. It comes from the Greek word nostos, which means return home, and algos, which means pain. It was reportedly coined in 1688 by medical student Johannes Hofer to describe the anxieties displayed by Swiss mercenaries fighting away from home. Which essentially means there isn't anything positive about the feeling.
Modern studies argue that people who are nostalgic tend to be optimistic about their future. According to former Harvard professor Svetlana Boym, there are two types of nostalgia. Restorative nostalgia inspires us to go back and change our past, while reflective nostalgia allows us to accept our memories for what they are.
My random observations point out yet more versions of the feeling. Patriotic or nationalistic nostalgia is the most fearful of them. The rising rightwing movements sweeping across Europe and South Asia clamour for a return to old religious beliefs and political philosophies. Some are worried about what globalisation will mean for their country; some are jaundiced by Islamophobia; some want to recreate make-believe mythological kingdoms. They lead to mob violence, lynching and massacres. Britain's break-up from the European Union and the disintegration of the Soviet Union were all consequences of this menace.
There are people, mostly the New Gen raised away from their home countries, who feel for things back home. I call it inherited nostalgia. Having grown up watching their parents talk fondly about their past, these youngsters inherit a liking for what the adults feel about certain cultures, art forms and religious observations.
There is another group of people who feel nostalgic for something that hasn't happened yet. It could be a music concert in the US you always wanted to experience physically or a religious congregation in north India you have long wished to attend.
Some nostalgia comes like a tsunami. They are periodic but harmless, such as annual religious celebrations like Eid, Christmas and Diwali. Months of preparations and tonnes of money go into these festivities that foster camaraderie and tolerance all over the world. The long queues outside Kerala restaurants to savour the annual Onam sadhya is just one example of this cultural nostalgia.
The nostalgia I most dread is the genetic one. It's as debilitating as cancer. My maternal uncle, who migrated to Sri Lanka in the 1930s and lived and died on the Indian Ocean island, is a typical example. An accountant by profession and literati by passion, he kept contact with top writers and editors in India until he died. During my last encounter with him in Colombo in 2001, he opened up his archives and lamented: "God knows what will happen to this treasure after my lifetime. Take it to India and donate it to a library." I couldn't keep my word for familial reasons. The person, whose practising languages were English, Tamil and Sinhalese, spoke only Malayalam during his last few days, which only his wife understood. Nostalgia killed him.
"Dad, have you planned our next vacation?" That's my daughter.
"No."
"How about Kullu Manali?"
"Are you mad? I get only a few days. The call of the elements in my fishing hamlet is more irresistible than the hill stations," I said as I crooned Tom Jones's Green, Green Grass of Home.
"Dad, shall I tell you something? You are a hypocrite."
suresh@khaleejtimes.com