Confident fuzzy Chubby Coos
Identity, like a delicate boundary, manifests itself in the bloom of flowers, the groves of trees, the moth-bitten streetlights, and the nostalgia of incomplete photographs. It is the intricate collage that binds us to our past, present, and future.
Etched deeply into the neuronal strings of the brains, our birthplace never fades; it remains a cornerstone of our being, a silent witness to our journey through life. No matter how many different rhythms a foreign country plays, with every month marching close, we trace the essence of something left behind or bygone or forgotten.
It is the story of sameness, interconnectedness, and unionism – a shared narrative coming from common beliefs, struggles, and triumphs which diminishes the concept of ‘insufficient’.
For example a toasty corn and its aroma can have a calling and it can keep you running head over heels with a sense of childhood recognition. The one cooked by your grandmother in an open clay oven lined by cow’s dung to make fire .
But now such distinct things ( one of their own kinds ) do not exist .
I am myself, a humble representative of modern-liberalism’s vision.Born and raised in Asia, I now reside in Middle East, attending seminars from Australian tutors and communicating in the polished English accent.
My wardrobe is a fusion of American fashion, my favourite chocolate hails from Belgium and my hands hold Chinese gadgets with ease. I find solace in the pages of English literature, so, my emotions get interpreted in a non-native language . For vacations , I choose Europe to spend leisurely time .
Even my dreams extend beyond borders, I’m looking Forward in couple of years to hold a Canadian passport. But above all , I walk with drooping shoulders and sunken eyes having the label of an expat or a foreigner.
In this amalgamation of identities, where do I truly belong? Does my identity only come into practice when I’m stamped and questioned at airport gates?
The legacy of immigration , from home after home after yet another home ,has left a void within me, a longing for a sense of rootedness that seems elusive. The yearning of becoming a part of majority rather than slipping in the shoes of minority roars loud with in my atoms.
Yet, I find satisfaction in observing people/animals/places who hold sternly to their cultural heritage and their identity.
(The friendly coos while greeting the visitors popping out of fence)
Here stand the Scottish coos – giant creatures whose origins date back to the 6th century. Their powerful presence reflects in ginger, black, and white coats, as they graze with composure. I picture them walking with a Scottish elderly nomad, tall, enduring and comfortable in his own skin . Least bothered about the dream of a lustrous lifestyle.
Bangs on forehead , fluff on the entire body, the cows have been braced by nature to fight snow-capped mountains of Scotland. Unlike other cows they are not barn-dwellers . To open fields they stroll in herds by relishing nature-gifted freedom. Regardless of snowflakes pouring from the sky , or annoying springtime insects they never give up on the liberty of being wild.
Cream cheese and it’s resembling assortments have earned Scotland a worldly reputation because of the carb-fat milk produced by the highland Coos.
The iconic beasts have gladly preserved their historic culture, customs and traditions . For the years to come their upcoming generation would not produce clones, replicas or imitations but real Hairy Highland Cows.
