Country roads, take me homeTo the place I belongWest Virginia, mountain mamaTake me home, country roads...
On a Thursday evening, I found myself in conversation with a junior from college. A pretty girl with horn-rimmed glasses and a shy smile. As the conversation flowed, I was hit with THE question - “So, where are you from?”.
From her anticipatory expression, it was obvious that she was waiting for a short answer. I blurted out the name of the city that I take refuge in on the weekends - Trivandrum. Satisfied with the answer, she moved on; but I didn’t. I remember walking back to class and thinking about all the ways I could have answered that question - and how the name of just one city would never be enough to do it justice. To me, that has always been a loaded question.
Home is where the heart is, and my heart has been scattered across continents, tucked away in cities and harboured in nooks and crannies.
I was born on a cold Winter day in Virginia - a cosy little state on the East Coast of America. My earliest memories include tumbling around in the playground in the summers and helping my dad shovel snow off the driveway in the winter. I remember the smell of Banana Boat sunscreen. I remember getting dressed up in glittery anarkalis and going to the temple every Sunday morning. I remember going to kindergarten where I spoke English and coming home to a family that spoke fluent Malayalam.
Once I turned 9 years old, my family made the jump from Virginia to Bangalore. At 18, we moved from Bangalore to Trivandrum. And finally, at 20 I moved out to Kollam for college. And now at 21, I don’t know who I am.
I’ve always gravitated towards people like me: army brats, expatriate children, and fellow Third-Culture Kids. Regardless of the countries we’ve lived in, the synergy is undeniable. We form a culture of our own - an unusual third culture that fills the void left by the cultures that didn’t fit us quite right.
Until I was 9 years old, I used to stay at my grandmother’s house in Trivandrum for a month every year. Between running around with my grandma’s dogs and stuffing my face with pazham pori I’d agree to entertain the relatives with my childish antics. Inevitably, I would be hit with the question “Which do you like better: India or America?” When I was younger, I’d tell it like it was: I like America. My friends are there. I miss the taste of Fruit Roll-Ups and Capri Sun after a long day at school. As I grew older, I learned to say what they wanted to hear: India. And maybe now that is the truth, I haven’t thought about it much.
In the first school I joined in Bangalore there was no mercy for the ex-pat kids. There was no academic or language support, and there definitely weren’t any counselling services. My accent grew wilder when I realized that one: I had an accent. I rolled my Rs and dropped my Ts. And two: it made me stand out like a sore thumb. I was a shy, awkward kid to begin with and the unwarranted attention due to my “funny” accent didn’t help that. In an attempt to fit in, I would fake an Indian accent, but I wasn’t really fooling anyone. If anything, it probably made me stand out even more.
Jumping from one home to another has taught me to root my identity not in places, but in people. I have left pieces of myself with people from my past, and meeting them is like opening a time capsule. Every time I meet these people, I’m overcome with questions, eager for a peek into my past.
“Do you remember the time we got locked out on the terrace?”
“Was I really a great storyteller?”
“Remember how I used to cry every time I listened to that song?”
“Did I really dance confidently on stage for the annual day celebration?”
“Was I really her?”
That brings me back to the question at hand, “So, where are you from?”. I’m from the playgrounds where I scraped my knees, I’m from the libraries where I spent my Sunday afternoons, I’m from the mango trees in my grandma’s backyard, I’m from the group of friends that would laugh till their tummies ached. I’m from everywhere, everything, and every person I’ve met along the way and I couldn’t be more grateful to call myself home.
