ಟೊರಂಟೋದಲ್ಲಿ ರಾಜ್ಯೋತ್ಸವ

It was Shreyas's first November away from Karnataka, and Toronto had already started snowing. On the morning of 1 November his phone filled up with photos from home: flags on autos, yellow and red on every balcony, his cousins in Hassan dancing in front of their school.

He was in a library, alone, ten and a half hours behind. So he posted one line on the university's Indian students group: "Any Kannadigas here? Rajyotsava at my place, 7 pm. Bring whatever you can cook."

The kitchen

Six people came. A girl from Mangaluru, two from Dharwad, a PhD student from Mysuru, and Shreyas's Canadian flatmate Liam, who wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Someone pinned a yellow-and-red dupatta across the window. Someone made holige from a YouTube video; it came out shaped like Australia. The Mysuru guy brought a packet of Mysore pak his mother had couriered, guarded like gold.

They played Rajkumar songs on a laptop and sang along badly. Liam learnt three words, "ನಮಸ್ಕಾರ", "ಊಟ ಆಯ್ತಾ?" and "ಸಕ್ಕತ್", and used all three on everyone.

Kannadiga, anywhere

At 9 pm in Toronto it was 7:30 the next morning in Hassan. All seven of them squeezed into one frame and video-called Shreyas's Amma. Liam said "ನಮಸ್ಕಾರ, ಊಟ ಆಯ್ತಾ?" and Amma laughed so hard she had to put the phone down.

You can leave Karnataka. Karnataka doesn't leave you.

Gandhada Gani is for that: sandalwood and rose, the scent of home every Kannadiga knows, for every Rajyotsava, wherever in the world you are.