Memories of home

I could not reach for my phone to turn the alarm off which was mounted between the pillows of my bed. Feeling lethargic because I stayed up too late last night due to the pain in my stomach I let myself lay down.

I was 6 months pregnant with a boy.

Forcing myself out of bed, I reminded myself of the fact that I needed to feed my 5 year old child, who was already sitting in the living room and watching her American shows. Her name was Maria; we had chosen to give her a European name. My husband Ben had been working a night shift and I expected him home soon.

After having a shower and completing my morning skincare routine, I felt my stomach grow restless as the groans of my empty stomach grew louder. I ran downstairs to boil some water for breakfast oats and to put a kettle on for my husband Ben, who had developed a fondness for exotic tea. I peered up onto the wall to examine an old photo of my brother Gogol, which always reassured me.

I looked at my phone and received a message.

It was from Ben. He was on his way home.

I made myself a bowl of strawberry flavored oats. Earlier that week, my mother sent me a few Indian fruits I liked but I had eaten them already and so I sliced some apples and bananas from the fridge and layered them on top of my oats and scattered over some blueberries. I did find a Langsat in the lowest section of my refrigerator and ate it. My fridge was covered in postcards from our family trip to Delhi and Agra that we made when I was about 9 years old. I had made an apple puree for my daughter which she was happily eating as she eyed the television. Wandering towards the dining table where my hot cup of coffee was waiting for me to finally sip the aromatic white bubbles off the top of my cappuccino.

I sit down, cross-legged, as I always do, a relic of growing up with an Indian family, holding a mug in my right hand and looking into the distance towards the bridge crowded with people on the sidewalks, cars and trucks and their drivers, irritated, honking at each other.

I let myself drift back into a different time. A different place.

Remembering the day when my brother Gogol and 9 year-old me went to Calcutta for the first time. The year I turned 9, we went to India for 8 months to visit our parents’ relatives. Over the years, memories of the trip grew obscure and some forgotten. What I did remember was that I did not feel excited to go somewhere foreign and strange.

I did not want to leave my American friends behind. My desire to go home stuck with me throughout our visit. There were so many strict customs and traditions that Gogol and I had to keep in mind. We had to memorize how to call aunt and uncle by Bengali and not in the American way. It was something odd and quite specific ‘mashi’ and ‘pishi’, ‘mama’ and ‘maima’, ‘kaku’ and ‘jethu’. I definitely did not know how to pronounce those words properly but I also never felt connected or close to the people in India like my parents did.

I recalled a day when I told Gogol how scared I was to meet these people and just talk to them, so I spoke English to my brother for the whole time instead. Our Bengali relatives yelled at us for not including them in our conversation. Back in America we attended those Bengali schools and classes to catch up with the language but Gogol and I were always bored and the lessons were tedious. Despite our Bengali heritage we still spoke English with each other on a daily basis.

Sitting on my chair in front of the table, I allowed myself to break free of these memories, returning to the scalding tea and heat that emanated onto my face. My memories have happened like stop-motion, a sequence of events that come with accompanied by so many different emotions and feelings.

The memories come back to intrude upon my thoughts. In a sudden moment, I am looking back to India and my life in America as a teenager.

When we arrived in Calcutta, Gogol and I were treated to luxurious goods, with our American hairstyles, expensive sneakers and backpacks slung over one shoulder. When we entered the room of my family`s house, we were given cups of Horlick`s and plates of syrupy, spongy rossogollas. I did not really like the specific taste of Hindi food which I had no appetite for. To show some respect, we had to eat this dutifully. My distaste for the cuisine stood out around other Bengalis.

I was very much missing my friends in America for the past 8 months spent in India with my Indian family. I was imagining myself hanging out with them, and them asking me about my trip. The funny recollection of the attitudes that were part of our normal way of life were so different to that of our relatives. It was peculiar just how my uncles and aunts were interested in American way of lifestyle. They all were surprised that we had carpets in the bathrooms on our Pemberton Street. Gogol and I couldn't imagine an ongoing life like this, even without carpets in the bathroom. Perhaps, we were strongly attached to our home country, America, and we were well adapted to the American mentality. It was quite difficult for me to comprehend this daunting time my parents had to go through when they were adapting to an American culture.

I even remembered a moment when Gogol and I were given rubber slippers to wear indoors. It had still remained as a habit in our household when we were little. One of the most prominent things I remembered my father was that he wore slippers every day before he passed away.

Out of nowhere, my memories of Calcutta brought me back a day when I was a teenager. I was quite troublesome as a child with a toothy, white American smile after my braces came off my teeth. As every other teenager in America, I used to show the dark side of an aggressive youth. I would slam doors violently arguing with my mother. I hated when she did not agree with my idea of coloring my hair and getting a streak of it blond. She was upset when I had gotten additional holes pierced in my ears at the mall.

This is definitely something young teenagers in India would never do.

The buzzing from my cell phone interrupted me from thinking of my past. It was a message from Ben who was standing right behind the front door and waiting for me to unlock it for him. I took my time, pondering my memories. I had never thought about how important and precious those memories of my trip to India might be. I remembered my mother saying to me that when I grew up, I would begin to cherish all these moments from the past. I won't be able to get my father back but at least I will go back to Calcutta, where Ben and I got married, and visit my mother.

I will be able to see how my daughter will react to the fact of being American but feeling this Indian way of being. Maybe, like me going to India may help her to figure out who she really is. Neither American with a bit of Jewish and Asian background like her dad nor Bengali with a European name.

Ben and I had decided to name our unborn child with an American name, such as Robert. Naming an unborn child in my family was like a tradition in the family that every parent would follow. 

I got closer to the front door to unlock it for my husband, and as I stepped forward and was reaching for the knob, Maria appeared out of nowhere to hug me. Then it was the three of us and the fourth one still getting ready to come to this world and become a member of our family.

I always thought I would like for my baby to grow up with a name that reflects a strong culture, perhaps something that stood out from everyone else. His name would make its mark on the people around him in his life.

His name would show the world his beauty.