What a difference four years make

As I prepare to make my first solo international trip post-motherhood, I marvel at how much and how far I have journeyed since my move to South Tyrol, building on my parents’ immigrant legacy

Yesterday, as I ran downhill towards the bus stop, I tried to imagine how I might appear to someone perched at the bottom—a blurry brown body draped in pastel-shaded cotton sari covered in a technicolour jacquard print cape-like coat. I wore a basic black top to offer some visual relief from all the colour. I couldn’t help myself. It’s already early spring here and the magnolias are either at the height of their ecstasy or are in a state of arrival. The almond blossoms speckle the landscape, their effusive scent always catching me off guard each time I pass by. After two weeks of almost incessant rain, we have relatively bluer skies once more and from where we are in the valley, we can witness the slow and steady march of green make its way towards the mountain peaks. The willow tree in the playground is now covered in soft, fresh green leaves. The floors of lawns are studded with white flowers called geese eyes in German and dandelion. Daffodils are in bloom. Soon, the tulips will surface, followed by the Glycenias. Having lived here now for four years, I feel like I am ‘in the know’ about the plot. The yellow Ginster flower is aflame and as shop fronts prepare for Easter, I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be confronted, daily, by so much beauty.

One of my earliest anxieties around living here was becoming too accustomed to it all, to the point of not seeing, anymore, the lavishness of this beauty. Many people who live here don’t see it. It escapes them because it is almost too familiar. It is only when they travel elsewhere and return that they appreciate the luxury of living in such proximity to nature, being governed, so directly, by microclimates. I feel a bit spoiled when I soak in the afternoon sun on our balcony. The air is crisp. The sunlight feels so warm against the skin, you feel it seeping into your bones. By 4 pm, the sun is already behind the mountain. It continues to light up the other side of the valley and the sunset is so different from those I have known in Mumbai and Delhi because our horizon is flanked by the Alps.

I was rushing to Bozen, the nearest city and the region’s capital. I wanted to attend some part of an opening reception at the Museion, the region’s biggest contemporary art museum. I had arranged to meet a curator friend for coffee before. It felt like a luxury to do such a thing. Since our child now attends daycare, we have been in the position of being able to reclaim some swathes of time to do things like these. Lisa and I caught up with each other breathlessly over coffee. Four years ago, we got to know of each other’s existence because of a curator I had met in Kolkata at the Experimenter Curator’s Hub. 

When I was seeking work and put a call out on Facebook, this curator had alerted Lisa about me. She actually did reach out, asking if I could proof a manuscript of a book she had co-edited, a phenomenal, trans-disciplinary reader with writing by some of the most brilliant minds. We had so much to talk about, I forgot to tell her I had been asked to be on the jury of the residency that she was on the jury of the year I was selected as a fellow. Reporting to her about it made me realise how far I had come in these last four years. I was speaking in German to other curators and following the speeches that were being made in Italian. Who would’ve thought?

Last Friday, I taught the first lecture this semester at the university. This was the third time I was asked to teach this class on gender equality and equity in working life situations. There were 26 people in the room! This year’s batch of students, though predominantly white, are a lot more visibly queer than previous batches. Already the conversations we were having felt more complex and nuanced. It was my first time teaching at the university where I didn’t need to take a 10-minute break to feed my child. He was safely away with his grandparents and could make do without me. He had said to my mother-in-law, ‘Mama study’.

I am emotionally preparing to take my first solo international journey over four days and nights in the last week of March. I travel to Dubai to teach an art criticism workshop at the Sharjah Art Foundation. I feel a mixture of excitement and fear. I haven’t slept without our child since he was born. I don’t know if I will feel a void or feel grateful for the autonomy. I’m taking a leap of faith and trusting my partner and his parents will manage without me. As I talk myself through my anxiety, I try to congratulate myself on how much and how far I have journeyed since my move. How precious it is to be able to reflect on all the small achievements that comprise our larger joys. How lovely to be able to continue to build on my parents’ immigrant legacy in my own feminist ways.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.

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