Stuck Between Two Lands

What I remember from when I lived in India is very vague, but the memories always tend to make me want to keep going back. Like Christmas or Thanksgiving in America, Holi is one of the popular holidays that people from all over the country celebrate. It is described as the celebration of colors and happiness. People of different cities get together and pray, and the ceremony is followed by something very unique. Children and adults continue the excitement of this festival by throwing colors and water balloons at every person that they see. There’s never an angry face in the crowd, as everyone is so absorbed in the celebrations. It’s a really festive time in the country. Adults get a chance to relive their youth and the children get a chance to appreciate the love and affection of their family and friends.

Today is every six-year-old child’s favorite day in India. I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. Not only do we get a day off from school but we also get to misbehave without any punishment. It is the one-day of the year that I wake up without having to be dragged out of my bed. I rush into the bathroom, insisting that I want to take a shower and get ready first. I pick out the whitest of my white clothes to wear so every color that falls on me can be seen. I can’t wait to go outside and start throwing the water balloons at all my friends. “I wonder what colors they’re going to throw at me,” I think to myself as I grab my water gun and rush to the front door. “Vish…Vishhhh…VISH,” followed me outside. It was my mother. She wants me to take part in the religious rituals and eat breakfast before I began frolicking around the neighborhood for the rest of the day.

I’m the first one out of my friends ready to immerse into celebration. There are already some kids outside whose shirts aren’t white anymore. And neither are their shoes. I can’t wait any longer.  As I walk towards my friend’s house, irritated and eager, I pass the grouchy old man’s house. I hope he doesn’t scold me for making too much noise today. He has the whitest white car that I have ever seen. He always keeps it sparkling clean. As I continue to stroll down the road, a car smeared with tie-dye watercolors pulls into his driveway. What?! Is that Mr. Shah’s car? I walk up to his house and I find him sitting in his usual red chair in front of his garage. I can’t believe that color stricken car belongs to him. He waves to me with an unexpected grin while he walks towards me the way he did when he scolded me last week. I have my water gun ready and loaded if that’s what’s going to happen. Just as I was about to pull the trigger, he whips out a water gun from behind his back and squirts me. I don’t know what to do right now. He runs and hides behind his car initiating a color combat. I never thought I would see the day but I guess celebrations like this could get even the grouchiest man into a festive mood. After all, it is Holi.

I can remember just like it was yesterday how carefree and simple that life used to be. It was like waking up from a dream that you wish lasted forever. My life suddenly got complicated. I had to say my farewells to all my friends and family. The land of opportunity was how it was known back in the motherland. I was excited to see how different another land could possibly be. I was ready to dive into this land but the waters were still shallow.

As the first generation in the USA, a lot was expected from me. My parents wanted me to be that well-mannered cultured typical Indian daughter while American youth required me to abide by their social rules in order for me to fit in. These two expectations would have been the same had I stayed in India. On simple American occasions like school dances, I would have to beg for approval. My parents did not approve of anything that seemed as though I was being “too” western. Girls in India are supposed to be very well mannered and modest; whether it is in their way of speaking, dressing or doing anything for that matter. Anything that seemed too masculine was looked down upon when it was done by a girl. One day, I was whistling the tune of my favorite song and my dad said, “Stop that nonsense. Whistling is not ladylike at all”. It was almost as if he would only react that way to please my mom.

Girls are also expected to be very religious in India and so it was expected in my household as well. It didn’t matter that we were living in a different social environment, the expectations didn’t change. My mom has always been extremely religious. She practices religious rituals on a daily basis. One would think that the daughter of such a consistent devotee would be just as devoted but that was not the case with me. My mom has said, “Don’t cut your nails on a Friday, it’s a bad omen”. My response to that was mere curiosity. What’s my mom’s response to my curiosity? “Don’t worry about why and just follow what I tell you to do.” I’ve tried multiple times to question the rituals but the same ambiguous answers became exhausting. I wanted to know what reincarnation was and why Hindus believe in this phenomenon. “It’s just something that we believe. Why do you always have to be so rebellious? Stop questioning your elders.” Conversations like these would turn into a battle where in the end neither of us would remember what we were initially conversing about.

These dramatic episodes hindered my social life and my freedom as I was growing up. I grew up in the suburbs of Franklin, Massachusetts. It was the typical suburbs: families living in homes enclosed by their white picket fences. At school, everyone was friendly with all their classmates. They would see each other on the weekends, go to the movies together, the mall together, and then discuss how great of a time they had on Monday mornings: the typical thirteen-year-old American child’s life. “Mom, can I go to the mall and movies with a couple of my friends this weekend?” I would ask occasionally. “I can’t have you frolicking around the town like that,” my mom would respond. If this conversation ever ended with permission to go, it would be the one and only time during that month that I wouldn’t be restricted to the four walls of our suburban Indian house.

Years after moving to the United States, I went to visit my hometown. I arrived at the airport and a gust of humid, subtropical air hit me with familiarity. As I walked out of the airport, I saw my grand parents waving to us over-enthusiastically as though we would not be able to find them in the impatient mass of families at the arrivals terminal. I was visiting with my family. My grand parents were living in the same house that I used to live in. Eight years passed by, and nothing changed. The marks on the wall from measuring my height, the stain from when I spilled the grape juice on the carpet, everything was as I left it. It was comforting to return to such an acquainted place that held so many memories. During my visit, the national holiday Holi took place. I was really excited because that was one of my favorite holidays. I never get to fully enjoy this holiday in America since I would probably get arrested for harassment if I threw watercolors at everyone that walked by my house.

It’s finally the day of the holiday. I’m the first one awake and ready for the activities to proceed. I wait for everyone to get ready since no one else is as excited as I am. Maybe I remember it as more of an exciting day than it actually is? I don’t know. Am I going to be able to misbehave the same way that I used to? I just want to be let out of my cage. It’s been eight years. I take part in the religious rituals and help clean up before I venture out. While I clean, thoughts about how my mom is going to react cross my mind. Maybe I should just stay in. I don’t want to upset my mom in any way. After I finish cleaning, I start watching TV for a while. Fifteen minutes of TV and the thoughts about my mom’s reaction still haven’t left my mind. My mom is preparing a heavenly concoction of crispy, sweet deep-fried pastries. This Holi, I’m going to be a spectator of the color combat accompanied by these pastries. The thought of Holi coming and going without any special celebration saddens me to the point where I wish I was back in America where this day has no more of a value than any other ordinary day.

I take a break from all my thoughts and go outside to see what color the neighbors are for the day. All the young ones are squirting each other with red, green, blue and yellow. I wish I were six again. I miss not having any obligations of being mature. I went to America thinking that I could do everything that I thought of doing; fly a kite, build a sand castle, ride a bike. None of that happened, and now Holi isn’t the same either. I sit on the stairs that led to the driveway from the front door observing all the activities taking place. I turn around to find my mom running out of the house dressed in her whitest clothes with a water gun in hand. Staring at her with my mouth open in complete confusion, I accidentally swallow some of the colors that splashed against my face. Did that actually just happen or was I just imagining things? I can still feel the bitter pasty taste in my mouth so it must have happened. I can’t believe my mom, the most serious person I know, let herself out. I run after her and dump a bucket full on colored water on her. She doesn’t scold me for being too crazy like I expect but she takes another bucket and drenches me with the colored water too.

Holi has yet to let me down. Every time I go back to India to celebrate, I make sure that it’s just like all my previous Holis. Holi helped me realize that because of the difference in expectations between my mom and me, I will always be stuck between two different lands. But Holi is the one-day that I can step into the waters, even if it means taking the stairs into them.