India, Bring Spring to Brussels!

To describe my first days in Brussels with one color, I would choose gray. Gray not only in terms of gloomy weather, but also the rhythm of life. People get up in the morning, go to work, earn money, go out, go for dinner, party on weekends. Unless you are a newcomer who needs to get used to metro that runs in two levels or find your way in the city, life seems to be more or less predictable, stable and in some way comfortable. At least the slice you get to taste as not being fully integrated yet. It’s mid March. I have moved to Brussels to do a traineeship at the European Commission. If I look at my life exactly one year back, everything seems totally opposite. I was living in Hyderabad (India) with more sun, more adventures, more colors. People welcomed spring in the craziest way I have seen so far – splashing colors everywhere and at everyone. They call it Holi, Hindu festival of colors.

It’s Easter break in Brussels, but no signs of spring to arrive soon. Since I never plan my grocery shopping in advance, on the day of the second Easter I realize that all the supermarkets are closed, I have moved out from a temporary place in Jette to a permanent one in Etterbeek and find myself hungry for all: food, colors, spring, India. “Those small Arab shops should be open," my flatmate tells me. So with a hope to find them I get lost in the streets of Etterbeek. Etterbeek is one of the 19 municipalities of Brussels city. My Belgian friend told me that the 19 municipalities are like 19 faces of Brussels. Each has its identity. Jette, for example, is more traditional, Flamish concentrated municipality while Schaerbeek is where a lot of Turkish immigrants live. And what is Etterbeek like? The municipality that is located close to all the European institutions with the famous Schuman metro station as a landmark. I have no clue yet.

I am listening to Chammak Challo, the soundtrack composed for the Bollywood movie Ra One. Last year it was a hit in India! Chammak Challo on streets, in weddings, in clubs, loved by youngs and olds. As I am looking for shops, I imagine myself one year ago. Would I ever face such a situation? In India, food finds you wherever you live, wherever you go. Street vendors follow you on trains or buses, in the corners of streets, next to your house, at touristic spots. Indians truly care that you get your meal. “Had your breakfast? Had your lunch? Had your dinner?” They will ask you each time to make sure you are fine.

Here, it’s taken for granted. Maybe not for those Arabs who have opened their shops on a holiday (but that’s not a holiday for them, I assume). I enter one such shop. Small and compact. I am looking for bread, but can’t find it there. So, I buy noodles instead. Then I get out and walk further on until I notice another shop. It’s actually not that hard. As I look around the area, I realize those small shops are not that scarce. Now it's another Indian hit on my MP3 player. It’s Subha Hone Na De or commonly known as My Hero. It lifts me up. I enter a shop. Too lazy to take off my headset. I do enjoy the song, the powerful rhythm, the energy. And I see fresh French baguettes on a shelf. With no doubt I take one and present it to the salesman. For a slight politeness I take off one of my headset. He tells me 70 cents. As I start looking for coins in my wallet, he asks me:

“Are you from Poland?”

“No. From Latvia.” I don’t mind to answer. “And you?” I ask in return.

“I am from India.”

“What?”

I can't believe what he just said. I want to give him my MP3 player as if proving - see, I was just now thinking about India, listening to My Hero and Chammak Challo, remembering Holi and colors, but I say nothing of that as if I am tongue tied and suddenly don’t know where to begin.

“Wow!” I only exclaim. “You are from India! I was living in India last year!”

“Really? Where?”

“Hyderabad.”

“Oh, that's south. I am from north, Punjab. It’s close to the Golden Temple.” He tells me with a pride in his eyes.

“I loved India!” I go on. He smiles and keeps in speaking about Punjab. I feel like we both have found each other in the right time and at the right place. We both get nostalgic.

I haven't paid him the 70 cents yet. Now after our nice chat it feels a bit awkward to hand him the one euro coin I have prepared. But I do it. And it's even more awkward to take the change - 30 cents. But I do it too. He is a vendor, I am a customer. Just like he lived in the North of India, I lived in South. We part with smiles and for some reason, I promise I will come to his shop more often…

I get out in the streets and suddenly notice something I didn’t pay attention to before. I see Indian ladies wearing winter jackets and under those dark, heavy jackets I notice colorful Indian kurtas hiding from the winter. Spring needs to come to see those kurtas at full length not only covering their ankles. I conclude. Where is Spring? Where is it? When will we finish this bad weather? My Italian colleague complains to me in the elevator as he looks at his umbrella scornfully. He is not the only one. The entire city is waiting for spring. It becomes one of the commonly discussed topics.

Some weeks later I am running to the bank in Etterbeek to solve a problem with my bank card. As I am doing it during my lunch break, I don't have much time. I hurriedly enter the bank. My cheeks red, my hair tousled, I am gasping for breath. I see a family being served before me. It’s a lady, her husband and their newly born baby. I look carefully at the young man and suddenly notice his outfit. He is wearing....what? Soft slippers, sweatpants and a worn-out jumper you would normally wear only at home. It could be his pajamas. How dare you go to a bank like this? Straight from your bed? I condemn him in my mind. But he smiles, looks at his wife as she handles the bank procedures, admires his newborn baby and doesn’t seem to worry about anything in this life.

Then I look out the window and see a few beams of sunshine.

Maybe he is right. Maybe Spring has arrived.