I grew up in a developing country, a country riddled with corruption, poverty and numerous other problems. I spent more than enough time criticizing it with my friends and family, feeling an absolute sense of frustration and disappointment every time someone beside me broke a traffic light, cut a line, or I read about a new scandal in the newspaper. It’s funny how much we under appreciate the places and people around us until they are taken away.
I moved from India at 18 to pursue my undergraduate studies at Pomona College in California, a place exactly 8716.6 miles away from home. The first few days in Claremont made me feel excruciatingly lonely. And no, it wasn’t because I was technically alone, it was something else. I saw no large crowds as I walked the streets of Claremont. I didn’t hear the familiar buzz of people talking in Hindi, Punjabi, Sindhi, Marathi and the other million or so languages India proudly boasts of having. I remember sitting in dining halls and finding it extremely strange that people were not eating out of each other’s plates to try what the other had.
I missed the smell of my mothers’ morning tea and the whiff of spices from the kitchen that emanated through my house making my mouth water. I missed the door always being open, with neighbors and friends walking in and out without having set up dinner meetings three weeks in advance. I missed being referred to as ‘beti’ (daughter in Hindi) by shopkeepers smiling warmly and suddenly had to get used to being called ‘miss’ or ‘ma’am’. I missed being able to wear Indian outfits and not being stared at for them. Moreover, I missed not standing out in a crowd because of the color of my skin.
It suddenly bothered me every time someone who wasn’t Indian commented on my country or asked me an ignorant question. I began to defend my country, not me as an individual, because somewhere along the line, they had become the same thing. I felt a moral obligation to tell everyone where I came from and all the wonderful things India is made of. I felt like I had a burden to represent the place that had made me who I am today. I become a patriot the minute I crossed the border.
I had left a piece of me back in India and I hadn’t even realized how desperately I was trying to regain it. I started listening to only Hindi songs. I watched only Bollywood movies, ate Indian food every chance I got and spoke in Hindi whenever I had the opportunity to. I bought a bunch of kurtis online and celebrated Diwali and Holi with immense zest and vigor. What saddens me when I look back today is that I had to be forced to leave to realize how much these minute things meant to me. When I was at home, all I wanted to do was keep up with American pop music, and my wardrobe looked like a mini Forever 21 store. My family wasn’t very religious so I too, never took an effort to help my mom prepare for any rituals and festivals, nor did I speak any language other than English at home. I just considered these things as a part of my background, and not a part of me. But you see, where you come from, whether you like it or not, is a part of you.
When I returned home for the first time that December, I disembarked from the plane, and when faced with the hot, moist air, I breathed a sigh of relief. The first person I was greeted by at the door was my grandmother. As she hugged me dramatically as if I had just returned from a war zone, I smelt the familiar coconut oil in her neatly braided hair and felt my eyes well up. “How was your USA?” she asked as she served me my third helping of samosas. “It’s amazing in every way. It isn’t mine though.”
