John Steinbeck once wrote: “‘I have homes everywhere, many of which I have not seen yet. That is perhaps why I am restless. I haven’t seen all my homes.” Never has a statement resonated more deeply with me. I’ve been a traveller all my adult life, dipping like a swallow into a whole variety of countries, for days, weeks, years at a time, and feeling a sudden sense of belonging in every one of them. It gets easier as the years go on to settle wherever I am, for however long. Whether in Bangladesh, Singapore or New York, I treat the streets as my own, see the echoes and resonances in people’s faces, try to perceive the patterns and themes that make up our lives. There, among strangers, I feel welcomed, amongst friends, at home.

I’m fully aware that this ability to put down shallow roots probably owes a great deal to a very firm grounding in Wales, where I spent my entire childhood, and from where so many of my values derive. Even though I visit very rarely now, I am aware of how the country’s non-conformism, coupled with the sense of egalitarianism and social justice which are an essential part of its fabric, have penetrated me to the core. Perhaps it’s precisely this strong sense of origin which affords me this freedom to roam, this carefree breeziness. It’s a fine balance of rootedness and restlessness.

By contrast I am always fascinated by the experience of those who were uprooted from their homelands during their childhood, and transplanted to an alien soil. Those who therefore belong deeply to two cultures. Or perhaps to none. How does this condition, which of course applies to many hundreds of thousands of Bangladeshis the world over, affect the self-view? What are the joys and sorrows of a bicultural life?

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