Musings from Medavakkam

For Thatha, again

Because you asked, again.

There is this curious thing that happens as you age -- your hometown seems to come into focus, like that moment at the eye doctor when they slide the lenses into the machine and you think ah, yes. This is what it's supposed to feel like. 

For those of us lucky (or unlucky) enough to be second generation immigrants, we have two hometowns: Troy, for one, which I talk about extensively and endlessly on this blog, and my few readers are probably exhausted of hearing me wax poetic about nostalgia and rose-tinted glasses. And Chennai, where my roots lie.

I pride myself with a good memory; although it had been six years since I had visited India last, I truly believed I remembered all the most important details -- namely, how to slice the milk bags so none spills, and which side of the bed cools faster. Upon arriving that first night, however, I realized that I had forgotten how to switch on the AC, and that I never knew where my grandmother kept the dinner plates. I had never needed to, because at ten none of my relatives expected me to do anything but lounge around. Blurry picture. 

But now, I'm (almost) seventeen. My braces have popped off, and relatives were commenting on how tall I'd gotten. I no longer like Bourbon biscuits, and can barely stand boiled milk. I have a cell phone, and a period. In short, sometime between last flight and this, I had grown up.

We visited temples, this time not just to pose in front of them; I debated my aunt on Indian history, something I had never been able to do before. We visited a nearby beach, standing knee-deep in seawater because there's nothing quite like a body of water to remind us of how insignificant we truly are. In 2016, my grandfather had his 80th birthday puja, and I, not wanting to suffer the heat of the havan, had sat outside discussing Twilight and eating ice cream with my cousins. This time, I no longer wanted that muted, Americanized version of Chennai. That blurry picture. 

I wanted the real thing. 

Now, this isn't to say I got the real thing -- my lack of Tamil fluency meant I was left gaping at my mother for translations, and there are some Indian things I just cannot support, like my grandmother's tendency to clean her already-sparkling-clean house all day. Heck, I watched Indian Matchmaking on Netflix every night, which is the exact opposite of an authentic, Indian representation. 

But, for the first time, my visit to India was...mine. Clear picture. 

Hometowns are strange things. I think in between visits, small parts of us are trapped in glass. Like I couldn't quite leave behind my ten-year old self as long as she was the last version of me to know Chennai. I wonder if this is how it'll feel forever -- like the YouTube video of my life is buffering, unable to fully load while I'm so far away from home. I wonder if this is how it'll feel leaving Troy behind, which I will be doing this time next year. But, more than anything, I wonder who I'll be the next time I come home. I wonder what she'll think of me. If I'll bring her peace, or if it'll be the other way around. Because maybe, just maybe, it was never this town that came into focus at all.

Maybe it was me.