Feeling sudden hunger pangs a good four hours after my lunch, I rummaged around my drawers at work for something to munch on. I tried to ignore the signals my stomach was insistent on sending and concentrate on work instead. Twenty minutes later, I was taking the elevators down to the cafe to get a cup of hot cocoa. Waiting in line, I turned to the TV screen flashing breaking news on the Casey Anthony trial. Shaking my head, I handed over my card and asked for a cocoa and on an impulse grabbed an oatmeal raisin cookie as well.
The music on the overhead speakers changed and sounded hauntingly familiar. My brain connected the dots and I found myself smiling. Humming along, my fingers tapped out indistinctly on the glass housing that encased the baked goods. Less than a minute later, smile still firmly in place, I was striding back to my desk.
There was something oddly comforting about watching the breaking news and *knowing* what it was all about. Oddly comforting to hear strains of music and *knowing* who sang the song, what it was about, who the singer was. Then, I realized, it was the history. Not that moment or that song or that piece of news. It is the tenuous connection I had built with this world I inhabit now. Akin to standing at Raghavendra samosa stall knowing full well that the crispy delight would be accompanied by raw onion chutney or knowing just where I can find that particular shade of crimson red glass bangles in the whole of Madras. It is the history. Oddly comforting. And at home.