Taking a family trip to India every four years is a beloved tradition in the Sabharwal household. We carefully carve out a month of vacation time, stuff our suitcases to the brim with clothes and gifts, and endure the 20-hour flight to our homeland. Over the recent winter holidays, I had the fortunate opportunity to take one of these trips to visit my extended family and spend quality time in New Delhi, my beautiful birthplace. Despite the city’s changing climate and rapid growth, there’s something about it that always feels like home to me.
India never fails to astonish me with its amazing architecture, bustling street markets, culturally rich activities and delicious food. Every day presented a new, yet familiar experience as I explored streets I’d once wandered as a child and returned to markets that expanded in my absence. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia hit me whenever I ate my grandma’s home-cooked meals or absorbed the warm sunlight filtering in through our large balcony windows. India is my home, but the passage of time between our visits is an aspect I can’t ignore.
As an Indian-American woman, I’ve struggled with finding a sense of belonging my whole life. The intersectionality of my identities challenged my natural ability to fit into an environment. I always felt like I was neither here nor there, either too Indian to be an American, or too American to be Indian. Although this outsiderness could be glaringly obvious at points in my childhood, I didn’t realize the same would apply to my adulthood, especially in India.
When we visit India, I falsely assume that I’ll easily settle back into a daily routine and adjust to conversations in Hindi and the general Indian lifestyle. Unfortunately, this is simply not the truth. For the first few days, I awkwardly stumble through conversations with my family as I recall the nuances of our language. Similarly, I experience initial confusion when figuring out the shower in our home’s conserved hot water system or attempting to cross the street by myself in the chaotic traffic. Ordinary, simple tasks seem daunting in my home country when they should be straightforward.
My inability to be a “true Indian” is the most apparent when going out. In the markets, my mother insists that I stay silent because if I speak, it will be clear that I don’t live in India. The street shops usually don’t sell items at a fixed price, allowing for negotiation and bargaining. If the shopkeeper knows the customer is a foreigner, they’ll severely raise the price because of currency differences. Although I understand my mother’s logic, it irritates me that my Hindi doesn’t sound local due to my American accent. Am I not Indian enough? Do I come off as a tourist in my own country? Am I a stranger to South Asian culture? These questions follow me around and weigh on me.
As I delve deeper into my culture and embrace my Indian roots, I’m coming to accept that it’s okay for me to feel a little out of place when I travel to India. The entire point is to bond and reconnect with my family, and who better to teach me about where I come from and the scope of my heritage than them? People may never perceive me as Indian or American enough, but it’s important to exist and thrive in the space in between, and I hope to feel more comfortable in it someday.