The Dutch Reel

by KRITI SHIVAGUNDE (India)

Making a local connection Netherlands

Whenever I think of myself in that week, it always begins with the walk down the middle of an empty street, arm in arm with my roommate while four others and a dog (a golden retriever named Boy) walk dutifully on the sidewalk, amused by the 'Indians'. It's probably just 11pm but it seems far later than that, cold wind brushing past the only people under the amber streetlights. We aren't walking, per se, we're marching, humming a tune to the village of Dongen, giving a roadshow for anyone who's watching. Coming from Mumbai, India, I had a specific set of adjectives that could describe living and residence; namely, clustered, crowded, noisy, hot, tall, etc. Dongen, Holland (Netherlands), was a striking contrast against my ‘matchbox apartment’ milieu and every house I went past was a fresh relief from the populated streets of my own city. We did the essential tour of Amsterdam with the Anne Frank House; gorging on Tompoes and Stroopwafels. We walked through the infamous red-light district of Amsterdam, the Rijksmuseum, and a sundown at Kinderdijk with the famous windmills. And yet, all these years later, I remember not the places we visited but this walk down an empty street after a Silent DJ Party on Kingsnight. We’re dressed in orange, the national colour of Holland, with some feathery headgear and hair temporarily sprayed orange at the tips. Avani, my roommate, has caught on to Snollebollekes, an upbeat popular Dutch song, and hums it as we grab this rare opportunity to enjoy quiet, traffic-less roads to walk in the middle of. Back in the tent, we’d taught the Dutch some Indian Bollywood steps to their music; a raging hit. And the dancing ended with a circle of Dutch and Indians, arm-in-arm swaying to a slow song. And now as we walk back home, occasionally playing a game of tag, I reflect on the many things that seem dissimilar to where I come from. The stillness and the dearth of intrusive human presence was both endearing and frightening. The cuisine was largely bread based. Their festivals, limited. There are vast differences in the way of their living and ours, I conclude. We are nearing Wieske's house (our home for the next two days). I’m shivering in the cold night wind, eager to get back to the soft warmth of the fireplace and our blankets. We pass a set of buildings. The houses, very characteristic of Dutch architecture, open directly onto the sidewalk. As every window goes by, I get a glimpse into different families and their lives: a little boy on a bouncing ball, riveted by something on the TV, yellow lights of the living room conveying the heat I was currently deprived of. A man reading at his dining table, glasses on the tip of his nose, as his dog flops down at his feet in want for attention from the one arm resting off the table. A family wrapping up with their late supper, each member actively involved, some voluntary while some complaining. Life in routine, I pass them at a steady pace, lips blue, numb fingers, trying not to stop and stare. Every drawn curtain, like a little square image on a film reel; flashing past me as I walk, curious and entranced. And I cannot help but notice how similar these scenes are to every apartment window I’ve unavoidably glanced at in the buildings of Mumbai. I retract my conclusions. The premise of these lives is different, but their lives are the same. The people, their bonds are the same. This new context comforts me. Now home, we sit around the kitchen table, soaking in the heat from the receding fire, silently making ourselves a sandwich, careful not to wake the parents up. As we retire to our rooms, I feel a sense of familiarity in this unfamiliar place. Today, about six years later, I still crave Stroopwafels, tulips and Wieske’s mom’s spaghetti. But nothing soothes me more than the image of the warm houses on that street, each window a small picture on my Dutch reel; a fleeting movie for myself on how similar we all are even when geographically and culturally divergent.