By Erina Rejo

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To my family for showing me that love goes beyond the words we speak.

Traditions usually bring back nostalgic memories, but I have never felt so conflicted with one before this day. 

My family sat around the table. My feet squirmed in the giant slippers they rested in, slimy and moist from the twenty-four hours spent traveling to get where I was now. The tears everyone had shed were well gone and replaced with the usual smile of a reunion. 

The familiar smell of the country had emerged and I never wanted to leave it.

My nanu was at the head, my mother and masi on each side of him. I was seated close to my mom and beside me was my cousin. The rest of my extensive family gathered across the table. Their usual giggles of gossip lingered and I shot a glance to Soni whose toothy grin immediately appeared. She quickly began rambling about the bothersome boy at her school who she wanted to simply smack across the face. All her friends apparently had agreed with that sentiment.

Before I could tell her about her mom’s possible opposition, Nani emerged from the kitchen carrying a large steel bowl. The steam warmed my face and clouded the lens of my glasses as I leaned in to take a peek.

Paneer Bhurji, a recipe Nani was specialized in. I watched my mom make it back home about a dozen times but she could never quite replicate her mom’s loved recipe. Maybe it was the difference in skills. Maybe it was due to the ingredients. But I knew there was something different about this dish in India. 

Wrinkles rippled across Nani’s face as she took on a soft smile and sat in the empty seat beside me. As usual, my mother was the first to rise from her seat as she gathered her hair into a clip. She immediately began to serve food on everyone’s plates. I knew she heard their pleas but she always added an extra spoon before stopping. 

But, just like that, my mother and the family she grew up with stumbled upon a familiar topic from their past.

Soni and I listened in.

The mother language I had heard for the last hour came in stronger than before. Their stories became more complex and their passion tied together with the words, somehow making them lighter and travel quicker. They rushed by in a blur before I had the chance to even acknowledge their presence.

As my mother continued to pour the paneer onto my plate, she laughed, tilting her head back, her face growing red as she continued speaking to her sister. I strained to listen and latch onto the lengthy sentences but I could only pick out single words, barely enough to form a sentence. 

Shop…. Cold coffee… Papa.

Everyone laughed and I knew a joke had been spoken. That was my cue. Stumbling up on stage, I began the rehearsed smile and nod. When it felt necessary, I would chuckle. 

Suddenly, the smell of the food and the home and the country was a single reminder of how I soon would return on the plane. The memories they connected over I could no longer laugh along with. The language I once understood seemed to have escaped over the years with their shackles still on and I hadn’t even noticed. 

My eyes wandered to my brother. He sat across the table. I knew his abilities were no better than mine yet there were no puppet strings attached to his cheeks as he beamed at the stories being passed around the table. He would call out my mother every few moments to ask what was being said and she would quickly translate before returning to the conversation. Something I was too embarrassed or prideful to do. Possibly both. 

He weaved himself into the memories floating around, asking questions in a broken Hindi that I would normally cringe at. Yet, no one batted an eye to his jumbled words. They responded as they would to anyone else.

The time I wasted worrying about what could have been if I never lived in America was more moments I would never get back. I was allowing whatever persistent sense of dignity I had prevent me from appreciating the time I did have left with them to connect.

I tapped Soni on the shoulder and she leaned in to hear me among the chattering of voices.

“Fill me in?” 

She looked at me with a sense of understanding before explaining the long story I was finally ready to catch up on. 

Process

My travels to India have been some of the most memorable moments with my family. But like so many families who are separated by the seas, it can be the most joyful but also painful experience to visit and repent the lost time. I hoped to express that feeling through the language barrier I often experience.