We are crazy.
We love being loud.
We love the intense fervor in life. We love our country, our religions, our festivals and everything that is associated with being Indian.
We love cricket, not only the gentlemanly game, but also the one with masala and mayhem.
We are divided by our thoughts and actions, but come an outside farce questioning our integrity, then cometh the force with which we retaliate.
We are Indians first, then classified as a Malayali, a Tamilian, a Punjabi etc. etc.
Our festivals are something that always remain close to our heart. Be it in any corner of the world, your heart travels miles to feel at home. Supermarkets stock up festival items to ensure that the craving of the body, heart and soul is appeased despite the fact that you bear the groveling heat and bone freezing cold to fend for yourself in a foreign land.
As a Malayali in the Gulf, a so called cliché adrift in the lands down south, we seldom find it difficult to celebrate our festivals, be it Vishu, Onam, Eid or Christmas.
Thronging in big crowds in the supermarkets during the festival eve, walking the aisles specially earmarked for the festival items, people load their trolleys with the festivity items.
A glimpse into the Vishu shopping fiasco at a predominant supermarket chain in the "Gelf"
