As we made our way through the Ahmedabad traffic, I tried to remember what it had been like in India before we moved. My conversations with Neel and my mother had brought back a flood of memories, but they were now filtered through an American lens. I’d been happy in Ahmedabad but now wasn’t sure if that was because I hadn’t known any different. I hadn’t yet seen the Western world outside of television and had never experienced what a life of so many choices had to offer. But maybe that didn’t matter, and happiness was happiness, no matter how it came to be. Ignorant bliss, as they say.
What I recalled most was that life in India had felt simple. Neel and I went to school six days a week, had tutors seven days a week, and played with other neighborhood kids when we weren’t studying. There were no chores because those tasks were handled by the servants. I recalled enjoying certain things like helping my mother or Indira Mami shell peas or trim green beans because they were novel rather than required. Those were fun times in which I’d heard them gossip about other families, and I’d been excited to be sitting with the adults and be a part of their club for a short while. After we’d moved to America, chores became a part of everyday life, and prepping vegetables was work that was needed, so there was no joy in it. My mother and I often did the tasks in silence, and I could always see the strained look on her face, as if her mind were racing a thousand miles an hour, so I never wanted to disturb her.
As Virag Mama drove, we passed some kids playing a heated game of cricket in a field. I had enjoyed playing cricket as a child, but I was so far removed from those days. I longed for how carefree they had been. It took returning to India for me to realize how quickly I had grown up after moving to America. While I hadn’t realized it at the time, stress had become a constant part of life because money had been scarce and the feeling of being an outsider was pervasive. It was something that clung to me like skin and was part of everything I did. I’d never felt that during my early years in India.
There was certainly stress in India, and surely the adults must have felt it during my childhood, but I thought about Hari and Bharat and saw how much children in India were sheltered from it. I thought back to my conversation with Neel about our dad having worked a manual-labor factory job when we first moved to Chicago but telling me it was his same engineering job. In India, adult matters were handled by adults, and children were not meant to be burdened with them. While it made me less angry and hurt about the lies I’d been told, it made me even more curious about how many there were and what the truth really was. It seemed Neel knew more of it than I did, but it would surprise me if even he knew it all. Other than my parents, who had lived it, I doubted anyone could know the full truth. With my dad having returned to Chicago, that left my mother as the person who could answer these questions, and I wasn’t sure how to even begin to raise them with her. She and I didn’t speak of such things, and I’m sure she’d never spoken of such things with her own mother. That was the Indian way. But I also knew that my American side would have to try to find the answers, because they would help me complete the picture of my identity. And there was nothing more American than the search for one’s identity. But I also knew my curiosity and questions would have to wait because right now we had to focus on Neel. His visit to see Dipti had not gone as well as he’d hoped. They had only spoken for a minute before she stormed back to her room. Dipti’s dad then stepped in to tell Neel that she just needed more time. He sympathized with Neel, knowing how good Neel was for his daughter, but in the end, his loyalty had to remain with her. They were blood. Seeing the hurt on Neel’s face when he returned was too much for me. I was happy for a day away from the bungalow.
After forty-five minutes, Virag Mama and I pulled into the dirt parking lot of a three-story shopping complex that looked like so many others. The businesses with colorful signs in a mix of English, Gujarati, and Hindi script all faced the street. One storefront on the second floor boasted a far-too-cheesy blue sign with the words HAPPY SNAPS on it. The window was decorated with cheap-looking red-and-green tinsel and a cardboard cutout of a tree. Christmas was acknowledged only for the NRIs.
When we walked in, I instantly recognized the man behind the counter.
“I didn’t realize it was you,” I said to the overzealous photographer from Hari’s wedding.
“Yes, please, madam. It is my pleasure to see you again. Namaste,” Tushar said, hands in prayer position and bowing at the waist to greet me.