This summer I moved to London with my children, mother, dog and husband. I am in pursuit of a higher degree. These early days are days of optimism for me in this new country. On a walk from Wimbledon station to the Wimbledon tennis grounds, ready to sit outside the courts, I was so grateful to be on these hallowed tennis grounds at last, a childhood dream of mine. A bearded man in grey clothes handed out cold bottles of water in the name of friendship from Muslims in London. There was a sign with something of that order hanging on the fence behind him. I had smiled at him and he, bearded and toothy, smiled back widely as I took the water. A cab driver one day, a white balding Britisher with an accent I scrambled to keep up with, told me that his mother was an immigrant. I listened to him explain British politics keenly trying to understand the nuances of what he was saying and what he left unsaid. Hope is the word I will think of when I will remember these early days. Even as we enjoy the many new British sights and customs like the high tea, the museums with free entries, the innumerable verdant parks, I also feel surprisingly a pang for the America we have left behind. I don’t know if we will make a home in London but for immigrants like me home is both a memory and a hope.
As we enter into the fourth issue, a word of gratitude to all the contributors, advisors, artists and a welcome to Archita Bhavandkar who has designed this issue and Lavanya Shanbogue Arvind our guest editor. I hope you will enjoy this issue.
Happy holidays to you and yours.