Resettling in Siliguri

Mr. Basumata turned the key and softly pushed the little white door open to a purple-hued living room filled with the early morning light. A beautiful and smiling Mrs. Basumata came quietly down the staircase to greet us. Before a word was shared between one another, Mr. Basumata called us to sit down and he began to pray. Mr. Basumata praised God for bringing me safely to them and asked for grace and patience as we all settled into our new lives together.

The Basumatas own a two story house in a quiet neighborhood a block away from the loud, relentless Sevoke Road. Mr. Basumata (Uncle) is a marine engineer and one of the pastors at Little Flock Fellowship Church while Mrs. Basumata (Auntie) commands the household and is involved in the weekly women's prayer meetings. Only one of their two sons, Abishai, lives with his parents, while their other son is studying in Bangalore. Several relatives live right next door, so the Basumata house often serves as a hub for family passing through and nearby cousins seeking entertainment.

As Siliguri is at the cross-hairs of migration from the Northeastern states, Nepal, Bangladesh, Bhutan and China, I am constantly listening to people alternate between different languages to find ways to communicate with one another. My host family and all their relatives are from the Bodo (BO-ro) tribe of Assam in Northeastern India. The Bodos are an ethnolinguistic tribal group that only number around two million and the Basumatas largely converse in their Bodo language. Meanwhile, since the WBVHA is a state-level agency in West Bengal, all of my colleagues communicate in Bengali. Despite a month of language training in Hindi, my only real practice is trying to decode the Hindi sermons during church.

I am currently navigating the pains and struggles of resettlement, but I am thankful to be able to retreat from the hard days to a family that welcomes this new person with love, comfort, and thanksgiving. As if she has known me my whole life, Auntie has her special blend of coffee waiting for me everyday after work. From the very moment I shake the rainwater from my umbrella, shrug off my raincoat, and leave my mud-soaked Tevas at the front door, that cup of coffee reminds me that I have people waiting and praying for my safe return.