To India
Growing up, it was just my parents and I. We were your typical nuclear Indian family. I was the first American-born child on both sides. In many ways, I was isolated from my family, so much so that they didn’t actively exist in my mind. I speak to my grandparents on occasion and my uncles when they wish me happy birthday, but they are like ghosts to me. Real but barely there. This is the price of an immigrant. My parents left their lives, childhoods, and histories behind almost thirty years ago. I pay the residual tax on this price tag, in which I do not know the others who bear my last name. Though they occasionally stay in touch, I do not. There’s never been something tangible other than my parents to feel connected to my family in India.
The last time I set foot in Hyderabad, India, was seven years ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since I last saw the colony that we reside in. Last time, I was seventeen drowned in my self-pity and depression. Now, I am twenty-four and prefer savoring each moment of the day rather than trying to escape it. When I was seventeen, some things plagued me in a way that only a teenager could understand. These days, I manage to only dwell on the negative for a moment before it’s on to the next. Even physically, I have changed - curly hair, full hips, and, most importantly, a self-assured smile I really mean. My lens of life has shifted in these seven years - emotionally, mentally, and physically. This time I was excited to explore India with a clear mind - no mental wars waging in the background.
My month-long trip included shopping for a wedding, said wedding, and traveling to new cities. My cousin’s endless wedding events disproved my long-held theory that I was alone. Once my parents are gone, my invisible string of being an immigrant’s daughter would disappear. I would have no proper tie to India. I need my parents to coordinate accommodations and, though I’m a native Telugu speaker, they often speak for me. I’ve spent years thinking there would be no one I could turn to and let my native language flow without hesitation. This wedding reminded me that being a Chemarla is not just me in a silo with my parents. With each photo taken, hands lovingly feeding me, and life stories recounted, I found my eyes looking back at me. The same large eyes and mischievous grin I possess in those around me.
There is a particular moment with my grandfather that pushed me to write about my trip. My thatha (grandfather in Telugu) and I don’t usually have much to say. When we chat he’ll ask how I am, if I’ve eaten, if I’m making money, and if I’ll send him some cash. The last question is always asked tongue in cheek and we both chuckle as I tell him yes. This time when I visited the village, I noticed how different it felt. My grandmother’s frame seemed even smaller and my grandfather looked weathered by life. That day, my grandfather insisted I eat a sweet, so I haggled with him. If he eats half, then I’ll eat the other half. We sat in front of the house, splitting the dessert in silence. The only sounds were my parents and grandmother chatting with the occasional blare of an election trumpet somewhere in the village. There was silence between us as we slowly chewed - hardly even looking at each other. The silence over the phone was something I dreaded my whole life. If thatha stopped speaking, I would scramble to find my next sentence. For the first time in twenty-four years, I began to understand my grandfather. He loves sweets the way a schoolboy does. He prefers few words over many. I started noticing him in a way I hadn’t before. His life story was etched onto his face and intentional pauses in conversation were as important as the words he chose to say. Perhaps it’s not enough to know him or my relatives now, I can't say for certain though. The main reason I don't know them as well as I'd like to is due to physical distance. I can’t help but feel grief for not knowing my family - for not knowing the ins and outs of these so-called ghosts.
This trip, however, felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Sharing that month with my parents and the rest of my family, I saw color in the faces I often heard about, laughed with them, learned about their likes and dislikes, and so on. This India trip made me realize that my parents can’t afford to be outwardly sentimental about the lives they left behind. So, I carry that weight for the three of us. Or, I hold this feeling because I am naturally an emotional person. Regardless of the reason, each moment in India, I wondered if this would be the last time I would experience it as is - with my grandparents alive and well, my older cousins living in the same city, and my younger cousins still being joyful kids. Only time will tell if I’ll have the same connection with India as I did on this trip.
As I write this, I’m softly crying thinking about the family I wish I could spend more time with, the places I want to explore, and the memories I long to make. My tears have less to do with the grief of missing out and entirely to do with the gratefulness I feel to have any memories at all in India. The price of picking up and moving across the planet so your future family can have a better life is not one I’m familiar with. My parents made that sacrifice so I don’t have to. My trip is a reminder that there will always be a home for me in India. I’ve always been grateful for my time spent there, but this time I internalized how much of my family and its history is there.
To India, thank you for holding a piece of me.
Sincerely,
Shresta
