Falling in love with India began by following in love with communal living.
I am no stranger to communal living situations – though in the past they were sources of stress rather than pleasure. We visited the motherland [New Delhi] often growing up – 1979, 1982, 1986, 1992, 1998, and 2001. During these visits we would stay with our family members – with many of them living in joint families. Joint families can be large or small, depending how many sons are in the family. In ours, there were at most 10 people or so living in the same house. Add the five of us from abroad, and that is one big party!
I learned a lot about family dynamics when co-existing so closely for 2 month summer breaks – yet never felt in my element. Being an American, with closed doors and privacy and moods, it was jarring to have constant two-centsing (people giving their two cents for all decisions, movements, intentions etc). Often suffocated within a few days – our trip would end with lingering bitterness about the lack of independence "kids" have in India.
This is not an uncommon experience for other Indian-born America-living peers. Yet! I really wanted this to be different in this journey. Hadn’t I changed/grown-up since 2001? Didn’t I have new tools in my pocket to spend time with extended family without being in a constant state of irritation?
Initially not so. While in Goa, I made a rushed trip to Delhi to attend the funeral of my papa’s older brother. I didn’t have much time to mentally prepare so felt quite nervous. Once I got there I stayed with one of my aunties, a household of three women – it seemed like a nice way to ease in. The first day was okay, attending the funeral was top of mind. By the second day however the guilt trips has started – and the questions and the expectations. I felt paralyzed and transported back in time; if I had any new tools I couldn’t pull them out. The short visit ended with familiar feelings of disappointment and discontent.
In fairness, and in hindsight, I had gone under false pretences to Delhi. I was traveling with a boyfriend, and had neglected to mention him, or the overall intentions of my trip, which was more than becoming an advanced yogini. I was still trying to maintain face so they would accept me and realize that Indians living in America weren’t so bad. Was it possible to break this and just be me, even to these most conservative of people?
The journey taught me that this was not only possible, but essential.
It started in Mangalore – a cozy rainy town on the western coast of Karnataka. One of my cousins lived there with her husband – delightedly they opened their flat to us. They were living examples of the Indian hospitality belief ‘Atithi Devo Bhavah’ – Guest is God. We were treated well – comfortable beds, washer and dryer (!) in the apartment, amazing home cooked food. We had some open hearted and frank conversations with both – my cousin in particular bravely poked holes in my Bajaj family theories. No! Not everyone in Delhi was conservative, wanted me to act a certain way, and would be judgmental about my choice to travel with my boyfriend! Really, time hadn’t stood still in Delhi after we left in 1975. Kids were dating and choosing their own mates, kids were dating and marrying non-Indians, kids were even getting divorced. My cousin slowly opened me up, and then took the additional step of talking to her grandmother about Jeff and I, a big step since her grandmother also happened to be the family patriarch. The road had been paved, I just had to stay on it.
Here is a picture of my cousin and her husband, taken at a beach on the coast.
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