A BAG FULL OF LOVE

Homesickness is the black bottomless well deep in the heart of immigrants. It is considered bad form, amongst the immigrants I know, to talk about how sick they are for their mummy and daddy, for joking with their brothers and sisters, for the dry hot air of their native country. Instead, they mock the huge parcels of spices and socks which their mummies send for them, and keep complaining about the prices of air tickets. Which are, as it goes without saying, horrendously high and make regular visits to your home country impossible. Indeed, we have to train ourselves not to think about home and to blank out feelings of homesickness; otherwise we would be crippled- we would sit in the middle of the street and start sobbing hysterically. 

Shopping is of course a remedy for most types of spiritual sorrow and mental anguish, and homesickness is no exception. Oh! The delights of shopping in a western mall! Hunting for bargains and rummaging through sales, falling in love with artsy-crafty ware, comparing hundreds of brands of lipstick and eye-shadow of almost identical colours, chatting with “friendly” salespeople…and eventually paying LOTS more than you initially thought possible are almost a foolproof way of beating Homesickness. And shopping for your loved ones Back Home is even better, for it produces a noble glow of your moral worthiness and selflessness, and none of those nasty pesky feelings of guilt which are the residue of any shopping trip worth the name.

I can still remember a parcel I did up for my my family Back Home after I had first separated from them at the age of seventeen: a wooden coloured bead twisted necklace for my sister, brass key rings for my mom and dad, hers with `39 and still holding`, his with `king of road` in capital letters, something for my elder brother (probably a pen, I think), and nothing for my younger brother, whom I hadn`t seen since he was ten days old or something, and whom I didn`t really know. My mother still nags at me, occassionally, for failing to get something for my baby brother.

Fifteen years have passed, and once again I am shopping to fill parcels to send to Iran for the same people (well, almost. No use entering the intricacies of family relations now). Nowadays, with the wealth of a decade of my savings behind me, my bag of love for Iran is slightly more sophisticated: a large summer bag, or `tote` as they say here, a gift from Lancome, who loves me very much and gives me lovely gifts whenever I spend a very large sum of money on a very small pot of moisturizer at her counter.

The Bag is stripy red and navy, with red corners and handles, and ties with a red satiny ribbon at the top. Inside, there is the fruit of one month gleaning at the mall below the office where I worked, each item carefully thought over and considered.  There is Lancome eye-cream for my mummy, a smaller stripey bag full of goodies such free Lancome make-up samples, an art-deco key-chain with a picture of my children , a pair of `made in Nova Scotia` silver earrings for my sister, a set of Hitchcock DVDs for my brother… For my sacred sainted mother-in-law, The Woman who has Suffered a Lot in Her Life But is Still Brave And Patient and Only Wants to Help Her Children, I put in some incredibly heavy LÒreal shampoo, conditioner and hair dye and cod-liver oil tablets at her own request. And, in accordance with one of our many marriage rules and regulations which states a couple should always get identical presents for their Two Mummies, a pot of identical Lancome eye-cream.

And so, the Bag is on its way, from Halifax to Tehran.

Tags: family, presents, relationships, shopping, siblings