My parents came to the United States from India in June of 1995 with two suitcases and $40 in their pocket. In hopes of a new life together, they worked day and night fulfilling the “American Dream”. Five years later, they visited home with their two-year-old daughter, who would then return with her one-year-old little sister, Ruhee, in 2004. Thus marked the beginning our bi-annual visits to the motherland. Every time we went back, Ruhee and I grew up a little, we would play with our cousins, visit our uncles and aunts, eat home cooked Indian food, celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, hear stories of our ancestors and the Pandit family’s sacred traditions.

Ever since I could remember, I was spoken to in Marathi and Hindi, two national languages of India. By the age of five, I spoke fluently to my father in Marathi and fluently to my mother in Hindi. There was just one problem: I didn’t speak English. Communicating in preschool was a challenge but as a young child attending an American public school, I picked up bits and pieces of the language and by the end of kindergarten, my English was proficient. When I would try to speak this newfound language at home I was immediately cut off. Growing up, in order to ensure that I do not forget my roots, my father would not respond to me if I spoke to him in English. Frustrated and confused as to why my father was so adamant, I would try to speak to him through my mother as she wasn’t as strict. That, however, didn’t last long as my father demanded to be spoken to, in Marathi, of course. As a young child, I never understood why my father was so adamant, but now as a young adult who can communicate with every single member of my family in India with fluency and ease, I can never thank him enough. This is the foundation of why I cherish every trip to India.

They say God gave you two ears and one mouth so you listen more than you speak. As most of my time in India is spent communicating with the elder members of my family, I often find myself listening more than speaking, which if you know me well, are aware that this is rarely the case. If you’ve ever had the opportunity to listen to somebody who is significantly older than you talk about their life, you’ve heard about the good, the bad and the ugly. The times where they felt as if they had it all and times where things were so tough that the only thing that got them through was hope and faith. Listening to my maternal grandmother as she was recalling her “golden days” of how she met my grandfather, finishing medical school, her experience of adjusting to living in a joint family, all while getting a quick snapshot of each family member and friend who embarked on this beautiful journey of life with her, is a constant reminder to me of where my roots lie and a concrete demonstration of the values, morals, and level of integrity that are imparted from generation to generation.

Similarly, listening to my paternal grandparents talk about their “glory days” of living in Dezful, Washington D.C, and finally, Mumbai lets me seek out one common theme: never forget your roots. Regardless of where you live, who your friends are, what your circumstances may be, cherish where you come from, what your family has taught you and most importantly, what your core values are. Every trip to India is a constant reminder of where my family comes from and that whatever my family has celebrated and mourned, they have only gotten through because they stuck to their roots and core values… and for that, I am forever grateful.