Even though I spent only my first two and half years of life actually living in India, I still consider its streets and alleys my first real home-despite the fact I can barely remember what they were like. My family came here from India when I was two years old, a good 16 years ago, we make a point to travel back every few years to visit family, our house and, at least for me, keep tucked in my mind the roots of my heritage. However, each trip brings new surprises to this place, this place that apparently I know so well.
Growing up in the States as the child of two Indian parents who spent majority of their life in India brings about many conversations reminiscing “the good old days” when things were so much simpler. India it seems is being pulled and pushed into two different directions as it attempts to find its identity. On one hand, it cherishes its culture and way of thinking, which are so unlike any other place. Yet on the other hand, it has been plunged in this political battle for technological and economical development.
One of the things I do remember as a kid however, is the feeling of community the small village in the state of Punjab brings about. During my parent’s time, everyone knew everyone, like a communal family- together with joy and despair. Now, my cousins can barely name the people living only a few houses down. Now, there are more vacation houses where people come by for a few months at a time. Now, there are more people scoffing at sitting in someone’s front yard and enjoying the first harvest together.
India will always be my home country, yet at times I wish I could experience it at its height in maintaining relationships with one another. Now, when I go back it seems more and more like I will be received as another visitor rather than a member of community.
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