Question

what pity a passing Jesuit on the road took the author's family​

Answer 1

Answer:

Curious as it may sound, I have always felt I am an Indian by accident. Let me explain why I say this. I was born in Bhagalpur. This ought to make me a Bihari. But I am not because my mother was a Bengali whose family had settled in Bihar. Within weeks of being born I came to Calcutta, where I spent all my growing up years. My school was founded by a Frenchman, a soldier of fortune. And though I scored far better marks in Bengali and Hindi there, the only language I learnt was English. How and why I have no clue since we all spoke Bengali at home. My first English article appeared in the Statesman when I was 13. Soon I published my first book of poems, again in English. Idropped out of college.Wrote more books till the desire to change the world (yes, in those days we actually thought we could) brought me to what was thenBombay, to be a journalist.Mumbai is where I have lived for most of my life. In between, for what seemed like six long years, I also lived in Lutyens’ Delhi. In a charming bungalow just opposite the BJP office on Ashoka Road, eating subsidised meals in Parliament and representing Maharashtra’s interests on a Shiv Sena ticket. So am I a Mumbaikar? Or a Bengali from Calcutta? A Bihari? Or a born again Anglophile like Nirad C Chaudhuri? I have no clue. Most Indians are like me, put together by accident. That’s the magic of being a migrant in your own land, trying to discover yourself through your many identities.

dropped out of college.Wrote more books till the desire to change the world (yes, in those days we actually thought we could) brought me to what was thenBombay, to be a journalist.Mumbai is where I have lived for most of my life. In between, for what seemed like six long years, I also lived in Lutyens’ Delhi. In a charming bungalow just opposite the BJP office on Ashoka Road, eating subsidised meals in Parliament and representing Maharashtra’s interests on a Shiv Sena ticket. So am I a Mumbaikar? Or a Bengali from Calcutta? A Bihari? Or a born again Anglophile like Nirad C Chaudhuri? I have no clue. Most Indians are like me, put together by accident. That’s the magic of being a migrant in your own land, trying to discover yourself through your many identities.My mother’s maiden name seemed to suggest that someone in her family in the past had a Muslim connect though her first name was Hindu (or Bengali, depending on how you see

it).The only place of worship I ever saw her visit was the St Paul’s cathedral on New Year’s eve more out of convention than faith. My father was born a Hindu and his family home was in Kalighat. His father remarried and chucked. them out my father, his mother and two sisters found themselves on the street trying to fend for themselves when a passing Jesuit took pity on them.He gave them shelter in Bishnupur where he ran a school. The freedom struggle brought my parents together. They married and we three brothers were born. Never did it once strike me what my religion was, which state I belonged to, what my language ought to be, which culture I should fight for. (My adolescent years went in protesting against the Russians invading Czechoslovakia and the Americans, in Vietnam. My Bengali DNAI guess.)If you look around you, you will find many people like me who in the midst of their many identities, accidentally chanced upon their Indianness. Each of them will swear by their regional culture, the language they speak, the faith they follow or (like me) do not. And, as they wander through all these, and discover themselves, they also discover the magic of being Indian.

Answer 2

$\underline{\underline{\huge{\gray{\tt{\textbf Answer :-}}}}}$

Curious as it may sound, I have always felt I am an Indian by accident. Let me explain why I say this. I was born in Bhagalpur. This ought to make me a Bihari. But I am not because my mother was a Bengali whose family had settled in Bihar. Within weeks of being born I came to Calcutta, where I spent all my growing up years. My school was founded by a Frenchman, a soldier of fortune. And though I scored far better marks in Bengali and Hindi there, the only language I learnt was English. How and why I have no clue since we all spoke Bengali at home. My first English article appeared in the Statesman when I was 13. Soon I published my first book of poems, again in English. Idropped out of college.Wrote more books till the desire to change the world (yes, in those days we actually thought we could) brought me to what was thenBombay, to be a journalist.Mumbai is where I have lived for most of my life. In between, for what seemed like six long years, I also lived in Lutyens’ Delhi. In a charming bungalow just opposite the BJP office on Ashoka Road, eating subsidised meals in Parliament and representing Maharashtra’s interests on a Shiv Sena ticket. So am I a Mumbaikar? Or a Bengali from Calcutta? A Bihari? Or a born again Anglophile like Nirad C Chaudhuri? I have no clue. Most Indians are like me, put together by accident. That’s the magic of being a migrant in your own land, trying to discover yourself through your many identities.

dropped out of college.Wrote more books till the desire to change the world (yes, in those days we actually thought we could) brought me to what was thenBombay, to be a journalist.Mumbai is where I have lived for most of my life. In between, for what seemed like six long years, I also lived in Lutyens’ Delhi. In a charming bungalow just opposite the BJP office on Ashoka Road, eating subsidised meals in Parliament and representing Maharashtra’s interests on a Shiv Sena ticket. So am I a Mumbaikar? Or a Bengali from Calcutta? A Bihari? Or a born again Anglophile like Nirad C Chaudhuri? I have no clue. Most Indians are like me, put together by accident. That’s the magic of being a migrant in your own land, trying to discover yourself through your many identities.My mother’s maiden name seemed to suggest that someone in her family in the past had a Muslim connect though her first name was Hindu (or Bengali, depending on how you see

it).The only place of worship I ever saw her visit was the St Paul’s cathedral on New Year’s eve more out of convention than faith. My father was born a Hindu and his family home was in Kalighat. His father remarried and chucked. them out my father, his mother and two sisters found themselves on the street trying to fend for themselves when a passing Jesuit took pity on them.He gave them shelter in Bishnupur where he ran a school. The freedom struggle brought my parents together. They married and we three brothers were born. Never did it once strike me what my religion was, which state I belonged to, what my language ought to be, which culture I should fight for. (My adolescent years went in protesting against the Russians invading Czechoslovakia and the Americans, in Vietnam. My Bengali DNAI guess.)If you look around you, you will find many people like me who in the midst of their many identities, accidentally chanced upon their Indianness. Each of them will swear by their regional culture, the language they speak, the faith they follow or (like me) do not. And, as they wander through all these, and discover themselves, they also discover the magic of being Indian.