I read this special report on my way from work. This was forwarded to me by my husband and I took the print out to read the report in the bus that day on my way back.
That was in 2007 now it's 2009 and today while cleaning my den/home office I came across this report. This special report had seriously gotten me interested. As many Indian in the US, we also *very strongly* want to move back to India at the right time and since this report is about an Indian family that moved back to India after 20 years...the subject itself made me interested enough to read it. I must say it's a very well written report and I am going to include here some excerpts from this report which I found very interesting.
Home — a word filled with loss and longing. Snatches of music bring to mind a mother’s song.Smells in restaurants conjure up a kitchen back home. A face in a crowd looks like a relative.Birthdays, anniversaries and other milestones bring guilty reminders of aging parents and the relentless march of time.
The problem for economic immigrants like me,immigrants of this generation, is that we are equally at ease in two disparate cultures and therefore fit into neither. We do the Namaz five times a day while trading derivatives or keeping track of baseball scores. We can sing in Sanskrit and Rap. We belong to both countries, yet choose neither.
As with most immigrants, home for me is a mélange of memories that have softened with time into a happy haze, like an Impressionist painting.There are people in this painting: iconic figures like my grandmother. There are physical places and wide open spaces. Most delightful of all are the scents and tastes of childhood — the fragrance of blooming night jasmine, dew wobbling on a lotus leaf, tinkling cowbells, the taste of cilantro, cumin and ginger — all of which imbue me with a
powerful longing for the land that is called India,but which I call home.
Many times, the couple hasn’t saved enough money and decides to stay for
“just one more year,” for the income.
The arrival of children complicates the process but compounds the longing. Both my daughters are Americans by birth but cannot escape being Indian.As a mother, I want to offer my children America’s benevolence. But I also want to bequeath them India’s heritage. I know they will love America, but I also want them to love India just as I do.
Living in Queens, New Jersey or Long Island was Indian, while living in edgy Manhattan was more Western. Goods that offered value-for-money were Indian; outrageous splurges were Western. Driving an SUV or BMW was Western; driving a Toyota or Honda was definitely Indian. Decorating your home with Indian artifacts was obviously Indian, while buying minimalist modern furniture was Western.And so it went.
That changed after I became a mother and took upon myself the self-imposed
but nebulous task of passing on “Indian values and culture” to my child. I didn’t have a clue as to what exactly constituted Indian values....
My problem — and perhaps all women face this — was that depending on the event and the people involved, I switched roles and changed personas.In the presence of elder Indians, I reverted to what I called my “Indian bahu (daughter-in-law)” role,touching their feet respectfully, plying them with fresh lime and samosas, and politely calling them Auntie and Uncle. In the presence of Americans,however, I got into my “feminist” role — she of the strident laugh and strong opinions. My husband’s answer to all this was devastatingly simple: “Why don’t you just be who you are?”
What she felt for her daughter:
She would probably end up traumatized by these mixed messages. On the one hand, I wanted her to be humble and respectful to elders like a good Indian kid; on the other, I wanted her to be an American go-getter.
What surprised me was that motherhood changed my attitude towards America. Until then, America had been a welcoming land where I had spent ten glorious years being young and free. It had denied me nothing because of the color of my skin or the foreignness of my character. Indeed, it had allowed me to fly, freed me from the constraints of my
homeland.
Ram’s attitude towards parenting was more sanguine. He believed that as long as we gave
Ranjini a stable home and basic values such as honesty, compassion and equanimity, she would turn out fine.
“You are overanalyzing things,” he told me often.“There is no magic cause-and-effect for parenting. It is more like a crapshoot. You do what you can, and hope for the best.”
Cross-cultural parenting was harder than I thought.
India’s social fabric seemed more conducive to raising a family. There, I could call a neighbor, any neighbor, at a moment’s notice and ask her to watch my child while I ran out for some milk. I missed the septuagenarian grandfathers who patrolled my neighborhood and reported back all naughtiness and babysitter negligence. I had hated their interfering as a child; now, as a mother, I viewed them as allies. I missed the whole village of people who had raised me, who would help me raise my child.
For the first time in my life, I began missing my large, close-knit family. When Ranjini uttered her first word, there was no one to share the delight with me save my husband.When her arm swelled after a fall, I couldn’t S.O.S my grandmother right away for an herbal poultice recipe.
Becoming a citizen is like taking life insurance: It is a cushion
“Sometimes, I wish I were one of those lucky Indians who has no desire to move back, ever,”...
“Indian parenting is all about hanging on to your kids and smothering them and preserving their innocence for as long as possible. In America, it is all about independence — separating them,teaching them to become strong and independent individuals.”
“I also recognize that we have a set of circumstances that are unique. We would be fools not to take advantage of them. We get along with each other’s families, the kids are still
young, parents are healthy, and we’ve saved some money. So if we must move back, it has to be soon.”
“I don’t want to wake up as an old woman and wonder, ‘What if?’...Better to try and fail than not to have tried at all.”
“Well, it is a costly experiment,” Ram replied. “And this is not a game. This is our life. We can’t afford to fail. We have to make it work.”
That was in 2007 now it's 2009 and today while cleaning my den/home office I came across this report. This special report had seriously gotten me interested. As many Indian in the US, we also *very strongly* want to move back to India at the right time and since this report is about an Indian family that moved back to India after 20 years...the subject itself made me interested enough to read it. I must say it's a very well written report and I am going to include here some excerpts from this report which I found very interesting.
Home — a word filled with loss and longing. Snatches of music bring to mind a mother’s song.Smells in restaurants conjure up a kitchen back home. A face in a crowd looks like a relative.Birthdays, anniversaries and other milestones bring guilty reminders of aging parents and the relentless march of time.
The problem for economic immigrants like me,immigrants of this generation, is that we are equally at ease in two disparate cultures and therefore fit into neither. We do the Namaz five times a day while trading derivatives or keeping track of baseball scores. We can sing in Sanskrit and Rap. We belong to both countries, yet choose neither.
As with most immigrants, home for me is a mélange of memories that have softened with time into a happy haze, like an Impressionist painting.There are people in this painting: iconic figures like my grandmother. There are physical places and wide open spaces. Most delightful of all are the scents and tastes of childhood — the fragrance of blooming night jasmine, dew wobbling on a lotus leaf, tinkling cowbells, the taste of cilantro, cumin and ginger — all of which imbue me with a
powerful longing for the land that is called India,but which I call home.
Many times, the couple hasn’t saved enough money and decides to stay for
“just one more year,” for the income.
The arrival of children complicates the process but compounds the longing. Both my daughters are Americans by birth but cannot escape being Indian.As a mother, I want to offer my children America’s benevolence. But I also want to bequeath them India’s heritage. I know they will love America, but I also want them to love India just as I do.
Living in Queens, New Jersey or Long Island was Indian, while living in edgy Manhattan was more Western. Goods that offered value-for-money were Indian; outrageous splurges were Western. Driving an SUV or BMW was Western; driving a Toyota or Honda was definitely Indian. Decorating your home with Indian artifacts was obviously Indian, while buying minimalist modern furniture was Western.And so it went.
That changed after I became a mother and took upon myself the self-imposed
but nebulous task of passing on “Indian values and culture” to my child. I didn’t have a clue as to what exactly constituted Indian values....
My problem — and perhaps all women face this — was that depending on the event and the people involved, I switched roles and changed personas.In the presence of elder Indians, I reverted to what I called my “Indian bahu (daughter-in-law)” role,touching their feet respectfully, plying them with fresh lime and samosas, and politely calling them Auntie and Uncle. In the presence of Americans,however, I got into my “feminist” role — she of the strident laugh and strong opinions. My husband’s answer to all this was devastatingly simple: “Why don’t you just be who you are?”
What she felt for her daughter:
She would probably end up traumatized by these mixed messages. On the one hand, I wanted her to be humble and respectful to elders like a good Indian kid; on the other, I wanted her to be an American go-getter.
What surprised me was that motherhood changed my attitude towards America. Until then, America had been a welcoming land where I had spent ten glorious years being young and free. It had denied me nothing because of the color of my skin or the foreignness of my character. Indeed, it had allowed me to fly, freed me from the constraints of my
homeland.
Ram’s attitude towards parenting was more sanguine. He believed that as long as we gave
Ranjini a stable home and basic values such as honesty, compassion and equanimity, she would turn out fine.
“You are overanalyzing things,” he told me often.“There is no magic cause-and-effect for parenting. It is more like a crapshoot. You do what you can, and hope for the best.”
Cross-cultural parenting was harder than I thought.
India’s social fabric seemed more conducive to raising a family. There, I could call a neighbor, any neighbor, at a moment’s notice and ask her to watch my child while I ran out for some milk. I missed the septuagenarian grandfathers who patrolled my neighborhood and reported back all naughtiness and babysitter negligence. I had hated their interfering as a child; now, as a mother, I viewed them as allies. I missed the whole village of people who had raised me, who would help me raise my child.
For the first time in my life, I began missing my large, close-knit family. When Ranjini uttered her first word, there was no one to share the delight with me save my husband.When her arm swelled after a fall, I couldn’t S.O.S my grandmother right away for an herbal poultice recipe.
Becoming a citizen is like taking life insurance: It is a cushion
“Sometimes, I wish I were one of those lucky Indians who has no desire to move back, ever,”...
“Indian parenting is all about hanging on to your kids and smothering them and preserving their innocence for as long as possible. In America, it is all about independence — separating them,teaching them to become strong and independent individuals.”
“I also recognize that we have a set of circumstances that are unique. We would be fools not to take advantage of them. We get along with each other’s families, the kids are still
young, parents are healthy, and we’ve saved some money. So if we must move back, it has to be soon.”
“I don’t want to wake up as an old woman and wonder, ‘What if?’...Better to try and fail than not to have tried at all.”
“Well, it is a costly experiment,” Ram replied. “And this is not a game. This is our life. We can’t afford to fail. We have to make it work.”
While going through the report again to write this piece, I once again could see how I was able to relate to the mindset of the writer. I wonder if it's same with all of the immigrants...or most of the immigrants or some of the immigrants..???
