There’s something about the smooth lines and distinct hood of a Hindustani Ambassador car that seems objectively appealing. Subjectively all of its appeal lies in the memories of one specific ambassador that sat behind the red gates of my grandparents house in Chennai. When parked it was the perfect place for us to sit; eating watermelon or handfuls of murukku. On occasions our cooling glass wearing grandfather took us out on drives; though it was not the most comfortable seating arrangement with a whole household all squished in the back seat. The adventures that car took us on during the December holidays felt untoppable. Eventually the car was sold, and exchanged with the convenience of rickshaws and shareautos. New and equally enjoyable memories were made at Fruit Shop and Mount Road. Right as we would land back in the United States the overwhelming desire to turn around and go back always lunged forward. I yearned for the simplicity of paint splattered balloons and hanging stars on Christmas; running between different family homes and long train rides through the countryside. So I spoke those stories to everyone that stood around me. Most of the time they made little sense out of context. India was far outside the bubble of our midwest town.
During a summer in elementary school I spent a couple of weeks at my grandparents house in Kerala; where one morning a week is allocated to burning trash. When I returned stateside I was invited to a birthday barbeque. I hoped it would instill excitement to be back. I remember the smell of coal burning in the grill carrying a wave of affinity for the days spent in Ernakulam.
“This smell reminds me of India!” I told the group of girls standing around waiting for the first burgers.
“We’re not in India.” One of them muttered, crossing her arms, looking to her sides and cracking a smile when the others laughed.
I had spoken too much that day. I had used up my allowance. I usually tried to be cautious of how much I could go on and on about what I missed. On days I slipped up the uncomfort of dislodging the balance, that remained by people staying in their boxes, was like eating too many fries before going on the Vortex at the St. Joan of Arc fair. The jokes about if Indians knew what coke was, or if there were real houses “over there,” usually came and went so fast I hardly had time to reproduce mock laughter. Then on a routine school day my 4th grade teacher introduced me to the book Homeless Bird, by a writer named Gloria Whelan from Michigan.
Briefly put, the story follows a young girl as she is married off in hopes of providing more stability for her family who lack the resources to keep her in the house. She comes to realize that the family she is married into are not as they had seemed. Her husband is also dying from a fatal illness. She finds herself both dumped at a house for windows after his death, and on the road to self discovery. I was unaware of any accurate background research done by the author, and if sensitivity readers played a part in it. I also didn’t know either of those components existed in the literary world or that they were essential to writing such a book. The significance of her novel was that an American author from Michigan wrote a book about an Indian girl. For an Indian American Michigander that was the closest to a meeting in the middle I had yet to come to. There were cultural themes that floated in frames of familiarity. I found solace in knowing that feeling was shared between myself and the pages of her book. Four years later and my fun fact for any ice breaker game at the beginning of the school year was still about my favorite book. In the best way to explain it, for a while that one fact was what tied my weeks of small town America and my weekends of Indian Association activities together. I never explained the summary or reason; it was just enough that it made sense to me.
Come high school I would purposefully keep my remaining Bharatnatayam mehndi and long drawn stained eyeliner on from the previous day's dance performance. I wanted to face any curious questions or pointed judgement head on. I can’t say it did much in educating others, but if that had been the purpose I would have found a better way of doing it. The goal was achieved. I made whatever box I was still working in more of my own. I had decorated the walls and drawn wide the curtained windows. While hung on the opened door, a timeworn Kodak picture of a smooth lined, distinct hooded, Hindustani Ambassador.
So on that note,
I will say good morning/afternoon/evening/night.
Till next type.
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