Family – An American in Kerala

1000 Unplugged Hours in One Year

Lately, I’ve been thinking about our Calicut days. We owned nothing but a bed in the beginning. Tucked away on the Centre for Water Resources Development and Management (CWRDM) campus in Kunnamangalam, we made our first home in a large bungalow surrounded by coconut and jackfruit trees.

But I’ve been confusing myself. Why am I looking back so fondly on the days when we didn’t have much? We didn’t own a refrigerator for the first two months we lived there. We cooked only what we would eat in one meal. Whatever food waste we had, we fed to the campus strays.

We didn’t have internet. So every afternoon, I’d trek from our house to Zac’s office on the Kerala School of Mathematics (KSOM) campus where I could video chat with family.

There was no washing machine either. So I washed clothing by hand in a bucket and rinsed everything under a tap.

Multiple times per day, our power would go off. And I’d lay on the bed and listen to the sounds outside. More often than not, I’d hear the adhan from nearby mosques and doze off in the heat.

We lived like this for a reason. Our KSOM campus housing kept getting delayed (our first experience with the urgency of Malayalee culture). We didn’t want to buy anything large that would need to be stored after moving into our campus flat.

But I wrote a lot then. Read a lot too. I hardly do any of those things now. My brain feels like it’s constantly firing on all levels. Even writing this, I’m struggling to concentrate and type the words on the screen.

I didn’t clench my jaw and grind my teeth back then. Didn’t chew down my nails as often. I don’t recall having as many headaches either. So what the hell is happening?

Social media is a huge contributor to these problems for me. I’ve become dependent on those hits of dopamine while checking my Instagram and Facebook feeds. As I write, my hands are itching to grab my phone and scroll my day away.

I don’t believe social media is evil. It is a fantastic learning resource for languages, crafts, recipes, you name it. I love seeing so many creative people out there. But I need a break.

And then I stumbled on (of all places – Instagram) a post by Hannah Brencher, who basically reached inside my brain and put my exact feelings in her own words. She talked about feeling a “holy, sure nudge” to turn off her phone. In her next paragraph, she wrote, “I was surprised to find my device had turned into a mini savior— I would go to it hungry, tired, and in need of affirmation.”

Oh my gosh, I thought. This is me. I even cried a little. It was what I needed to read in that very moment. I was not alone in feeling helplessly dependent on my phone and social media.

But Brencher created a solution for herself: the 1000 Unplugged Hours Challenge. The goal was simple: 1000 hours without her phone in one year. And she completed it. It’s not a Herculean task either – she calculated 1000 hours in a year to be either three hours per day or 20 hours in a weekend.

She wrote that life “surged back” in this past year, and that it was “a year of books, and quiet time, and laughter, and presence.”

Man, I want that. No, I need that.

It’s dawned on me in the last few weeks that Evelyn is at the perfect combo age where she is young enough to still love us beyond reason but old enough to hold deep conversations. If I keep scrolling, I’ll miss it all and regret it for the rest of my life.

So I’m joining Hannah Brencher’s 1000 Unplugged Hours Challenge. She even has a handy dandy tracker sheet you can download and print. This is great for people like me who need sheets, calendars, and planners to tell them what comes next.

I’m not sure what the fruits of this endeavor will be. For now, I’m aiming to be more present in Evelyn’s life, and I’ll take it from there. Here’s to my unplugged future!

The Golden Tusk at Jim Corbett National Park

For our tenth wedding anniversary and Evelyn’s eighth birthday, we wanted to explore somewhere new. Something that would be memorable for our little family of three. With record-breaking heat waves rolling through India, that left us with few choices. After deliberating for weeks, we settled on Uttarakhand – Jim Corbett National Park, Rishikesh, and Mussoorie.

After searching for decent travel agents, we found one who told us most resorts are far away from Jim Corbett National Park. Since we were planning on six safaris in four days, we wanted as little extra travel as possible. So, our agent suggested we stay at The Golden Tusk, which is very close to Corbett’s Dhela and Jhirna Zones.

We booked a three-night package with all meals included. We even tacked on a fourth night to give ourselves some breathing room. After arriving at Pantnagar airport, we drove for three hours to Village Dhela.

As we approached Dhela, I noticed sprawling fields replacing stocky buildings, and swaying trees and snorting buffalo replacing restaurants and people. Already, I was in love.

Flora surrounded us as soon as we entered the gates of The Golden Tusk. We felt the outside world wave goodbye as we made our way to reception.

Overhead view of The Golden Tusk — An overhead view of The Golden Tusk

Upon entering reception, Ms. Arti greeted us and, for our four-day stay, ensured we had the best stay. A staff member served us burans juice, the traditional welcome drink of Uttarakhand. After traveling in the heat all day, we gulped it down and flopped on the plush reception couches.

Outside reception area at The Golden Tusk

Initially, we had booked all our nights in the Nature View Room. But, while we checked-in, Mr. Manoj Bachketi, the resort manager, said he was upgrading us to a Corbett Suite for our entire stay. What a way to celebrate!

Nature walkway from reception to the resort room at The Golden Tusk

Ms. Arti escorted us to our suite. On the way, we admired the low-hanging trees, flowers, and narrow waterways that lined the way. Evelyn was thrilled when a red-wattled lapwing tottered across our path.

Our suite was everything we hoped for: luxurious, clean, and comfortable. The bedroom had sliding doors that opened to a balcony, overlooking the main lawn and the pool. In short, it was the perfect room to relax in after each safari.

Living space in the Corbett Suite at The Golden Tusk

Balcony of the Corbett Suite at The Golden Tusk

We knew our safaris would consume most of our time there. So we explored the property during our first evening and morning. We arrived from our journey in time to enjoy the afternoon tea served in the lawn. The chai and bread pakoras gave us much-needed energy for the evening.

Evelyn begged to go to the kids’ outdoor activities. She tested out the Burma bridge, the commando net, and the trampoline. The resort houses more adventurous activities like wall-climbing, ladder climbing, and zip-lining. All super exciting, but they were a bit too much for our careful daughter. You can also rent bicycles and adventure into the village.

The next morning, I visited The Golden Flower Spa (my Mother’s Day gift) and got a massage. Maya, my massage therapist, prodded the tension out of my joints and muscles, and I felt like a new person after I left.

The spa, The Golden Flower, at The Golden Tusk — Relaxation and renewal!

The Golden Tusk coordinates different events each evening for their guests, which makes it unique. During our stay, they organized a jungle grilling session with live music (cancelled due to a wicked storm that ripped through), a flutist on the main lawn, and a wildlife film for kiddos.

This leads me to the food at The Golden Tusk. We met Mr. Romesh Sethi, head of Food and Beverage. Whatever he is doing to run the restaurants there, I hope he keeps doing it. The variety and taste of the food is fantastic.

For a veg food lover like me, I had countless options of dishes like karela and gobi masalas, gatta curry, veg biryani, and fresh salads. Whereas my purely carnivore husband and daughter monopolized the non-veg section, which had dishes like laal maas, mutton rogan josh, and chicken lababdar. We parked ourselves in front of the live kitchen, where they doled out constant fresh, hot tandoori rotis on request. I’m craving the food even now!

I know I’ve mentioned a few staff members in this post, but every employee at The Golden Tusk deserves recognition. Their friendliness, urgency to solve any issues, and constant hard work are the foundations of this resort. An example of what I mean: Evelyn loves to live in the pool at hotels and resorts. I’m always on the fence about it because I never know how often they’re cleaned. Here, I didn’t have to worry at all. More than once a day, I saw people cleaning out the pools to keep them in top shape.

We only regret not staying at The Golden Tusk for our week-long vacation. I felt sad the day we left. During this trip, we learned that we are not frenetic, fast-paced travelers. We enjoy slow holidays, where we savor each moment for what it is, not worrying about what is coming next. And that’s exactly what this resort offers – an oasis from India’s chaotic urban centers.

overhead view of The Golden Tusk with mountains in the background — An oasis in the wilderness!

As for our safaris at Jim Corbett National Park, there’s a separate blog post in the making. What an experience!

5 Tips For Loving Your New Country

Well, you did it. You packed up and shipped off to another country; your dreams of wanderlust coming true. Soon enough, weeks or months have passed, and you’ve settled into a routine. But things aren’t as fun as you’d hoped.

Your bathroom looks weird, beds and pillows are too hard or soft, and the grocery store doesn’t carry anything you like. The climate is too hot or cold. It’s exhausting trying to do anything official where no one speaks your language. Everyone else’s concept of time is different from yours.

These are small problems, but small seems huge when you’re away from what’s familiar. Before you know it, homesickness creeps into your stomach.

A lot of blood, sweat, and tears goes into living overseas. You need to break down your beliefs and values, maintain your boundaries, cry a lot, and laugh more than you cry.

Believe me, I know. I’m going on a decade here in Kerala, and my physical and emotional changes careened through ups and downs. I never had any desire to live in another country. I was content to live in or near Pennsylvania for the rest of my life. Well, life had something else planned for me.

When I arrived in Calicut, I was a starry-eyed newlywed, thrilled to live with my husband. Not one thing about India bothered me. Giant cockroaches? Fine. All-day powercuts? Bring it on.

Then our daughter was born, and I ran face-first into a cultural wall. Everything I found endearing became an imposition, and I went into an “I’m here on a long vacation” mindset. Over time, I pulled away from that thought and grew to love my life. Now, I can’t imagine living anywhere else but Kerala. No matter where I am, I’ll leave a piece of my heart here. It’s my home.

But it wasn’t until recently that I figured out how I fell in love with Kerala. There are a few definitive things I did that made me feel like I now belong here. So, for the sake of anyone plunging into a new culture, I’m giving the few tips that helped me the most.

1.) Be observant.

When moving to a new country, this is the best piece of advice. Observe people. Check out their behaviors. Watch what they’re doing, but even more importantly, watch what they’re not doing. I learned so much about how to behave in India by shutting my mouth and observing.

Some things I learned: eating with my right hand and without utensils, not crossing my legs when I’m visiting someone’s home, replacing handshakes with head nods when meeting someone. These are small things, but people notice when you do them differently.

2.) Learn the language.

You knew this was coming. I’m not telling you to only learn to communicate with people. That is, of course, the biggest benefit to studying a new language. You create and deepen new connections with native speakers.

Learning the language blows your world wide-open. You can understand a new slew of music, movies, jokes, and idioms. For me, few things have been more satisfying than finally understanding Malayalam memes.

Learning a new language has a host of benefits. It stimulates the brain, stalls cognitive decline, and boosts creativity! So get signed up for a class and start your language journey!

3.) Throw yourself headfirst into the local culture.

Throwing yourself into anything when you’ve moved to a new country seems like the last thing you want to do. But please trust me on this one. It gives you an enormous appreciation for your new home. Take a dance class, a singing class, an art class. Pick something and try it, even if you’re terrible forever.

Learn the history of the art form. Attend a local performance or exhibition. You won’t regret it.

As for me, I’ve written before that I learned (and am still learning) mehndi. And right before the pandemic, I started Bharatanatyam lessons, which I love, love, love. Both have rich histories, and I gained new admiration for all mehndi artists and Bharatanatyam dancers.

4.) Cook the food. This, my friends, is what pulled me out of my cultural adjustment funk. When you cook the local cuisine, you tie yourself to much more than the food itself. You become connected to history, language, and relationships.

Recipe by recipe, I restored my self-esteem by perfecting a huge part of Malayalee culture – their food. Pride wells inside when I hear a Malayalee say, “Brittany is an expert in making biryani.”

5.) Stay humble. Over the years, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve culturally screwed up. It’s fine to make mistakes! But when Zac would explain how to avoid issues in the future, I’d rear up and demand why I had to change my behavior. The answer is rather dissatisfying: Because I had to.

Remaining culturally humble isn’t easy. It requires daily self-reflection: wondering how I can better communicate with and listen to people, and how I can better show my respect. It’s understanding the history and dynamics of where you’re living.

There is no sensitive way to say this, but it is neither your job nor your place to change the society where you live. Instead, amplify the voices of locals and citizens who are already changing things. They have done the hard work and deserve recognition.

I hope no one has read through this and now believes I sit stiff as a board and don’t speak so that I don’t offend anyone. If that was true, I wouldn’t have written this. Around friends and family here, I am totally myself. Frankly speaking, though, I am not the same person as the one who existed a decade ago, and that’s a good thing.

And there you have it. My five main tips for adjusting to a new country. While these won’t solve many other daily frustrations (a whole other ballgame), I hope they help people appreciate their new homes.

Feeling At Home At The Raviz

When I tell people I have lived in India since 2012, I get one of two reactions – the first type: “Oh wow! That’s such a once in a lifetime experience!” and the other – “Yiiiiiiikes. Better you than me!” Yes, yes, it is better that it’s me because I get to go fun places like this:

14542519_10100167040467084_4811483625435784384_o — The resort.

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14566476_10100167038091844_584413944407786107_o — Reception

In October 2016, before Evelyn and I left for our long visit to Pennsylvania, I convinced Zac that we should take a short family getaway. Just the three of us, minimal distractions.

We didn’t want to go far because traveling by car here is not easy. So after searching within a 100 km radius (side note – five years in, I am still not used to the metric system), we settled on Ashtamudi Lake in Kollam. More importantly, I had found an excellent deal with The Raviz, a five-star resort on the lake itself. We went, got a free room upgrade, and took an awesome morning houseboat ride. Also, I used the amazing jacuzzi tub in our bathroom. I mean, look at this place –

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14468542_10100167037498034_6171214926985705198_o — The view from our room.

Fast forward to August 2017, I noticed the Raviz, on their Facebook page, offering a new membership card. Since we loved our initial stay so much, I sent the page to my husband, suggesting we join.

We decided on the black membership. It gave us vouchers that included free massages, a complimentary night stay, and a free upgrade to a suite.

The vouchers aren’t the only perks – showing up with the card itself is worth something. A member gets a flat 20 percent off rooms and up to 50 percent off food and 15 percent off adult beverages.

For Evelyn’s fourth birthday and our sixth wedding anniversary, we decided to use our Priviliz membership and booked a room for two nights at the Ashtamudi resort.

As before, they rolled out the red carpet with welcome drinks and tikka. We had previously called to use two of our vouchers – a free 1 kg birthday cake and a free bottle of wine – and they had it all set up for us.

We also used our voucher to upgrade to their Royal Suite. Hands down, the most gorgeous and spacious room I have ever stayed in.

The large windows overlook the lake. I’ve been watching the houseboats float by, rippling the lake water, with coconut trees looming in the background.

Our suite has a huge sitting room, a dining area, a big bedroom, and one and a half bathrooms.

26756702_10100386509294794_8575491677840474112_n — Our bedroom

26841321_10100386509194994_3272088970095230976_n — The dining area and sitting area

26910091_10100386508970444_5865551473672192000_n — The master bath

26904460_10100386509484414_4113512681154750826_n — View of the rest of the resort from our balcony

26734427_10100386509519344_337618042997424200_n — View of the lake from our balcony

14566422_10100167038106814_5546147199133277115_o — Ready for our morning houseboat ride!

14567414_10100167039334354_8906430874016815697_o — More views from the houseboat ride.

14567561_10100167039678664_2040300808549182243_o — More views from the houseboat ride.

And the staff here at the resort are accommodating and caring, and they made us feel welcomed both times we’ve visited. They gave us the upgrade to the suite with no questions asked or stalling.

The servers and managers in Keraleeyam, the resort’s main restaurant, occupied and cared for Evelyn while Zac and I shoveled in the yummy Kerala-style, North Indian, and international cuisine. For Evelyn’s birthday, they brought out the cake with enough pomp to please a four year old and gave her a small gift.

Zac and I decided to get some Ayurvedic treatments done during our stay. We both chose the Tanusree treatment, which lasts about two hours. It involves a traditional Ayurvedic head massage, body massage, green gram scrub, red sandalwood body pack, and steam. Because it involves so much, the brochure said the spa required 12 hours notice. But when we asked about that, they assured it was no problem, and got me in for the first treatment right away.

IMG_20180119_115532 — My spa room….with a spectacular view that I forgot to take a photo of.

And, man oh man, my experience was fantastic. If you’ve never had an Ayurvedic experience before, they can be awkward. You’re vulnerable in many ways. Your therapist sometimes speaks only basic English, so you’re both too shy to for conversation. Well – that awkwardness was shattered this time around. My therapist made me belly-laugh and handed out compliments left and right, with my favorite being the following:

Therapist – “Madam is how old?”
Me – “I’m 33.”
Therapist – *gasps like I’ve offended her* “MADAM. I thought you were 26!”

I was like, can I call you up any time I need some flattery, please? But I came out of that room feeling like I had all my muscles and nerves unwound from tight coils. My skin felt baby soft (thanks to the green gram and sandalwood). Raviz’s Favourite Kerala Spa is highly, highly recommended.

IMG_20180119_174049 — View of the resort from our pedal boat

IMG_20180119_173724 — A houseboat in the distance on the lake

The Raviz treats all their guests well. They give freebies to everyone. You get a 30-minute houseboat ride across the lake, free evening tea and snacks, and a free cultural program before dinner. Both times we were there, a Bharatanatyam dancer performed in the reception area. So worth every cent we pay. I’m already looking forward to our visit next time!

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How I Miss You Already

My grandfather kept his favorite photo of my grandmother on display for everyone to see. It’s an average photo – she’s middle-aged, large tortoise shell glasses perched on her nose, her dark hair cropped short but still voluminous, as was the style in the 1970s, but it’s her smile – brilliant and shining- that makes it understandable why he keeps it out. Her eyes still showed the spitfire, stubbornness, and conviction that quickly faded as the Alzheimer’s eventually destroyed her mind.

“She was a good girl,” he said, smiling sadly. “I miss her every day.”

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August 25, 2017 – 11:10 pm – India time

I logged on to Skype with a sinking feeling in my stomach. My dad said it was an emergency, and I already knew, down in the depths of my heart, what he was going to say.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out and say it,” my dad said, his Skype image choppy and blurred, “Gramp is probably dead.”

My throat grew thick and my blood ran cold. “What do you mean probably?”

“There’s been an accident on Red Rock Mountain. Jack called Deb and told her that Troy heard that the person who died was a Serafini, and Gramp isn’t home right now. His car isn’t there. He told Bobbi Jo he was going to get a hoagie from the shop at the bottom of the mountain.”

My vision went dark. I had just said goodbye to him a little less than two weeks earlier. I had just- I had just-

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“Well, I guess I should get going,” I told Gramp as I herded my daughter towards the back door. “We’re going to Deb’s for a while too.”

“Oh, okay,” Gramp looked mildly disappointed, and it tugged at my heart. “You take care of yourself over there, okay? Tell Zac I said ‘hello.'”

“Sure thing. Love you.” I hugged him tightly and started for the door. He had never followed me before when I left. This time, he did.

“Love you too. Be careful, okay?” I paused at the kitchen door and turned to him one last time. The look on his face, it was almost mournful. “I’ll see ya when you come in May.”

My chest ached for a moment. I studied his face, feeling like it was the last time I would see him. I shook off the feeling – I’m too sentimental any way. “Of course. I love you.” And I walked out the door.

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“Brittany, he’s gone,” my brother told me as he leaned down to the computer screen. His voice sounded like it had gone an octave higher – full of suppressed emotion. He crumpled in front of me, sobbing, and I fell apart too – thousands of miles away.

Grief that I didn’t even fully understand enveloped me, soaked into every muscle and nerve. I wrapped my arms around my stomach and wailed. And I grew angry. So angry. “He didn’t deserve that. He was alone!” I cried, as my husband rubbed my back, trying to comfort me. Had he been afraid? Had he been in pain long? We had no answers and would not have any for a while.

After getting off the phone with the coroner, my dad finally sat down in front of the computer again, and I watched, so far away and so unable to do anything, as he cried for his father.

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“I gotta tell you this story about Gramp – it’s my dad’s favorite. He can’t stop laughing every time he tells it,” I said to my husband, as we sat in my parents’ living room. “So, Gramp calls Dad and says he can’t find his sledgehammer, right? He uses it to smash soda cans and whatnot. And this goes on for weeks, maybe months. My dad goes up to the house and goes down to the cellar to get a soda, and there sits the sledgehammer. He goes back upstairs and asks Gramp if has found his sledgehammer yet, and Gramp says, ‘Jeez, no I haven’t. I don’t know where da hell I put that thing. Maybe someone took it.’ My dad says, ‘Well, what are you smashing your soda cans with then?’ Gramp goes, ‘JEEZ-UZ.'”

And we both burst into laughter.

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“Daddy! Daddy! Turn on the light, so I can go up the stairs,” our daughter, Evelyn, had already run to Gramp’s chair lift and was pulling herself onto the seat. “Watch me do dis by myself!”

“Evelyn, shhhhh, Gigi’s sleeping. We have to be a little quieter,” Zac chided, gently.

I smiled and handed off to Zac the sleepover bags I had been bringing every night to Gramp’s house. He was letting us stay in Gram’s old room. It was a little haunting at first, seeing how all of her pictures on the wall had not been moved in decades. The walls were still stained yellow from nicotine.

“I’ll get us some water and then I’ll be up,” I told Zac. I went to the kitchen and switched on the light, noticing a pie container on the counter. Gramp had left a note, written on a napkin, on the container. His spiky handwriting read: “There’s rhubarb pie here and ice cream in the fridge. Help yourselves to whatever you want.”

I popped open the lid of the plastic container, and sure enough, one of Gramp’s delicious rhubarb pies was inside. I cut a piece, a small sliver because I was still mindful of the carbs and sugar. I relished each bite of the flaky and sweet crust and tartness of the rhubarb. When I finished, I looked down at the note again. “Help yourselves to whatever you want.” And wasn’t that just like Gramp? He’d give anything – anything at all for his family. A lump formed in my throat with some unnamed emotion – sadness, happiness, it was a combination of many. I grabbed the pen he had left next to the napkin and wrote: “The pie was delicious. I loved it!” Such a small gesture that I knew would bring him satisfaction – someone else had enjoyed his food. Tears blurred my vision as I washed my pie plate, and then I let them flow freely as I filled up two glasses with water. I briefly wondered how many more pies he would make in his lifetime. And then I cried some more.

I breathed in and out a few times to calm myself, wiped my eyes. I didn’t want to explain to either Zac or Evelyn why I had been sobbing in the kitchen because I didn’t know how to put it into words. Gramp meant so much to me, and I felt like I was noticing it a little too late. I looked at his note one last time, drew in a shaky breath, and switched off the kitchen light.

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“Yeah, Cameron and Daniel are both taking a gun of Gramp’s. Noah too, I think. Daniel wants some of Gramp’s garden tools too. Things to show eventually to John what Gramp was all about,” my dad looked at me expectantly. “Is there anything you want?”

“I- I don’t know. Let me think.” I pictured walking through his house in my mind. What did I want that would mean something to me forever? Curtains? Bedsheets? Photos? My mind took me into his kitchen, across the breakfast island scattered with photos of his great-grandchildren and his magazine and newspapers. I turned to the counter by the sink and there was the pie container.

“Does he have recipes? I want his recipes!” I blurted out.

“You mean handwritten? Or cookbooks?”

“Both. All of them. Any of them. I’ll even take copies if someone else wants the originals.” I saw him in my memory pulling into my parents’ driveway, getting out with a huge jar of pickles or a casserole dish of Swiss chard or an apple pie or a loaf of Cressia bread. Tears stung my eyes again. “I just- I want his recipes.”

“Anything else? You want some of his garden tools too?”

“Yeah. And I guess, if there’s any of his guns left, can Zac have one of his guns?”

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“I shook his hand and told him I’d see him again,” Zac spoke quietly, seriously. “I really thought I’d see him again.”

I paused the spoonful of biryani that was on its way to my mouth. I stared at Zac, across from me at the dinner table, his shoulders slumped slightly and his gaze was off to the side, maybe at a spot on the wall, maybe somewhere else. I didn’t say anything at first.

“How tragic that your family has lost two people like this.” I swallowed and nodded. It was true. How tragic – for a father and daughter to die in a vehicle accident, 30 years apart.

Zac blinked and shook his head, trying to shake himself out of his trance. “He was extraordinary, you know. Your grandfather. There’s not many people like him left.”

I could feel my face scrunching up and hot tears spilling down my cheeks. Again. I had never heard Zac calling anyone extraordinary, ever. “He was,” my voice was raspy. “He was a man ahead of his time.”

“You don’t have to cry.” Zac looked troubled. “And what do you mean he was ahead of his time?”

“It’s like Deb wrote in his obituary. He had the soft heart of an Italian mother. He cooked, he cleaned, he baked, he sewed, he babysat, he gardened. Not even many men today would do those things. And he did it all while still doing masculine things too.”

“Yes.” Zac agreed firmly. “Yes, that’s true.”

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Slowly, the facts about the accident started trickling in. He hit the back of a water tank truck. He was either already dead or unconscious when he hit it. His body was fairly in tact, except for a broken nose and bruised eyes. The fire department had to cut him out the car. He hit the truck so hard he moved it down the road 450 feet. My family’s and my fears, about him being afraid and alone in his last moments, were disproven. He was not alone – the two witnesses in the cars behind my grandfather stayed with him, stayed with his body. The one witness, a veteran himself, saluted my grandfather, an Army vet, as his body was loaded into the coroner’s vehicle.

What did not happen slowly was the outpouring of love and kindness from the community. Flags were lowered to half-staff in his honor. Phone calls, messages, emails, and food descended upon my family so quickly that they didn’t know how to handle it, except to feel grateful. Memories were shared with us – neighbors reminiscing about my grandparents’ home feeling like it their home. Men and women alike describing my grandfather in words I’d never heard before – “charming,” “so kind,” “happiest, friendliest, most uplifting guy I’ve ever known.”

As I read one post from an ambulance association, I was gobsmacked.

“I had no idea Gramp was an ambulance driver,” I said to Zac. “I feel so awful and guilty. I should have told him how great he was, how I couldn’t have had a better grandfather.”

“People like him don’t need to know those things. They’re content just doing things for people regardless,” Zac smiled a little. It eased my guilt some.

“Still, though, I wish he could have known…”

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“Would the bride and her grandfather please come to the dance floor?” The DJ’s voice echoed all around St. Basil’s reception hall.

My gown swished across the dance floor as I took Gramp’s hand. “Heya, doll. You look beautiful,” he smiled and started moving to Luciano Pavarotti’s “Let It Rain.” His moves belied his age. He swung me around the dance floor like neither my husband nor father did.

The song ended far too soon, and I embraced him once more, whispering, “Love you, Gramp.”
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It’s been three weeks since my grandfather died in a car accident, and still, many times when I close my eyes, his last moments flash behind my eyelids, even though I wasn’t there to witness them. I hide my grief better now than the first week he was gone – I don’t openly cry much anymore, but the tears threaten to overflow multiple times a day. I feel like there’s a gaping wound in my chest, but I can’t stanch it, no matter how hard I try – no matter how many Bible verses I read or how much I pray. It hurts.

Yesterday, after dinner, I aimlessly scrolled through my newsfeed, my brain grateful for the break. I jumped in shock when Deb’s profile photo (of Gramp) popped on my screen. She was video calling me.

I answered and, without speaking a word to me, she had her camera turned to my grandparents’ living room and dining room – empty. She turned the camera to her face finally and said, “Well, what do you think of that?”

“Show me again,” I replied. She got up and scanned the camera across the living room, where the kerosene heater always was; into the dining room where, I felt if I blinked fast enough, I could still see him relaxed in his recliner, watching a baseball game. She took me in the kitchen – the breakfast island no long scattered with photos, newspapers, and magazines; no pie containers, coffee pot or cutting board on the counter; the refrigerator, opened up and cleaned out. Up the stairs, she carried the phone, showing me the bathroom – the medicine cabinet that was always left half open, showing off his shaving cream and razor, emptied and shut tight. My grandmother’s room – the nicotine-stained walls repainted a brilliant white. And finally, the room he slept in last – empty and cleared out.

“Sad, isn’t it? My whole life has been here,” Deb finally said when she got back downstairs. “But what can you do?”

“It’s okay to feel sad about it,” I replied. “I heard you have to put the house on sale soon.” My grandparents’ house had a reverse mortgage on it.

“Yeah, we have 90 days to get it on the market. And then we can apply for an extension for another 90 days, so we have about a year to sell it. But everything of Gramp’s is gone already pretty much. All that’s left is this-” she showed me a wooden chest next to the sofa she was sitting on- “and this-” she showed me a box underneath the chest. “The bedsheets he slept in last are in that box. We haven’t washed them.”

“Do they still smell like him?” God, I felt a little morbid asking that.

“I don’t know, but I have his sweat rag that he slept with, and that doesn’t smell like anything now.” I felt a little less morbid after hearing that.

She wasn’t done though. “When I opened the door today and walked in the house, it still smelled like him in here. The house still smells like him.”
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I sat in the white wicker chair in my grandparents’ bedroom, shifting uncomfortably. It smelled old, stale, and sickness permeated the air. A part of me didn’t want to be there. A part of me hated seeing my grandmother so withered. She sat on the bed, her legs looking atrophied beyond recognition. Her eyes would glaze over at times, but mostly she smiled and laughed at Gramp, delighting in his jokes, delighting in him. Most of our conversation that day, I don’t remember, but I remember seeing the adoration between those two – like teenagers finding a first love.

“Arno, I want some ice cream,” Gram ordered, a little tinge of her tenacity peeking through the haze of Alzheimer’s.

“Sure, Di. You want it like a sundae?”

“Yeah….yeah.”

He got up and went downstairs immediately.

“How’s college?” Gram asked me.

I looked at her. It was September 2013, I had been married for 1.5 years, lived in India and was five months pregnant…..and I had graduated in 2008.

“College is fine,” I forced a smile, trying to ignore my heartbreak.

“And Cameron’s doing okay in school?”

My brother had graduated high school in 2012. “Yeah, he’s doing great.”

None too soon, Gramp returned with her ice cream, and he spoon-fed her each bite. They laughed together when she got whipped cream on her chin. It was so clear that Gramp loved doting on Gram. He loved taking care of her. He loved her. I smiled again, only this time, it wasn’t forced.
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April 8, 2014 – around 5 pm India time

I noticed a missed Skype call from Bobbi Jo. “Why is she calling me now?” I thought. “Isn’t it super early in the morning there?”

I called back, and she answered, her eyes puffy and red. “Gram just died about 20 minutes ago,” she told me, without ceremony.

I knew it was coming, but it still didn’t stop it from hurting. Zac took Evelyn, a mere 3 months old, from my arms, and let me cry, unabated. Gram was a shell when she died – we had mourned her long before she actually passed away, but I cried mostly for Gramp. He would be lost without her.

Much later, years later, Deb told me the most “amazing, heartbreaking-ly sad, and wonderful” thing she had seen the day Gram died was when my grandfather cradled her body and told her, “I’ve loved you my whole life. You’re so pretty. How I miss you already.”

And we miss you both, Gramp.
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“We’re filled with the hope today, and we’re sad, of course, but we’re filled with hope because we know, deep in our souls, that we’ll all be with Arno and Diane again. And I know Jack isn’t here today, but I’d just like to acknowledge him in front of everybody because, as I understand it, we all have this hope because he shared it with us. And the hope is [that] it’s not over for [Arno] and Diane; it’s only the beginning because [Arno] has received his reward in Christ.” – my cousin, Daniel, at our grandfather’s memorial dinner on September 2, 2017.

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Onam – the Biggest Kerala Festival!

Wow, long time, no write, huh? I know in my last post I had promised a few entries on what it’s like for me in India, but I had to step back from that. Like, waaaaaaaay back. The more I wrote, the more miserable I sounded and was becoming because I was picking apart the joy that someone else had found while touring here. Maybe someday I’ll come back to that when I can examine my big, scary India feelings without it affecting me in the present. So much for writing being cathartic.

Today, I’m gonna try to get back to the joy that I’VE found here (I’ve been doing this in my real life for a while now, and it’s working!). And one of those joys is…..Onam. You know, I realized I posted on my Facebook all of these gorgeous photos of pookalams (flower carpets), sadhyas (special meals), parades, games, but I’ve never explained the festival itself. Onam is the biggest festival in Kerala. It’s like Christmas: everybody celebrates it – Hindus, Christians, Muslims, you name it – no matter what they believe, and people start preparing for it far in advance. They have big Onam deals and sales in all the stores. For ten full days, people are pumped to the max about this celebration. Young men excitedly stand in groups in the middle of the road and stop moving traffic to gather donations for the nearby temples. And then Thiruvonam arrives, the culmination of the festival, and literally everything shuts down and people celebrate at home.

We moved way out to the boonies, away from Trivandrum city, about a month ago. On Thiruvonam, we drove into the city to spend the day with some family, and we were shocked at how deserted everything looked. No stores were open, no people along the roads selling fresh vegetables or fish. Total silence….until we came across those who were celebrating. People finish the pookalams (a task that begins on the first day of Onam – Atham) early in the morning in various places along the roads. Trucks, cranes, bulldozers, and rickshaws were trimmed with flower garlands and paper ribbons, but they had no drivers that day. Palm fronds were torn and folded into bows and hung from strings in the villages. And the people themselves were playing games like tug of war, blindfolding themselves and taking swings at clay pots, and musical chairs. They were dancing, laughing, joking, racing. We even came across two guys dressed as leopards? Tigers? We’re not sure, but they were chasing down the few cars that did drive by.

Peacock pookalam!

Peacock and kathakali dancer pookalam!

At the center of this festival is King Mahabali. A mythical king who is now depicted as a chubby, jolly looking fellow (sound familiar?), his spirit is said to visit Kerala on every Thiruvonam, and his people wish to show that they are as happy and prosperous as they were when he ruled the land, hence the flowers and elaborate meals.

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-6-38-39-pm — Yeah, I took this from maheshworks.blogspot.in. This is how he’s portrayed a lot now.

But why does King Mahabali visit Kerala only once a year? I’m sure you’re all dying to know, right?! This legend goes way back – King Mahabali was very generous and wise. Kerala was at its best during his rule – no crime or corruption, no caste system, no poverty but no obscene wealth either, everyone lived in harmony. It was perfect until the gods became jealous of Mahabali’s rule and respect. The goddess, Aditi, went to Vishnu, the preserver God, and asked him to, you know, ‘take care of this Mahabali problem.’ To add some irony, Vishnu was the god that Mahabali worshipped the most! Anyway, Vishnu agreed and disguised himself as Vamana, a poor Brahmin dwarf. Mahabali had just finished his morning prayers when Vamana/Vishnu approached him. Vamana explained he was a simple, poor Brahmin who only wanted some land of his own. Mahabali asked how much land Vamana wanted to which he responded “as much as I can cover with three steps.” Mahabali was shocked that this poor man would ask for so little, but he agreed anyway, not sensing that anything was amiss. But as soon as Mahabali agreed, Vamana grew and grew and grew and grew until he was larger than the earth itself. Vamana covered the earth with his first step and the heavens with his second, but then he stopped and said, “Where shall I take my third step?” And Mahabali knew he had to do something or this man was going to destroy the world, so he bowed as low as he could go and asked Vamana to place his third step directly on his head. Vamana pushed Mahabali into the underworld with his final step, and Mahabali begged for Vamana to show who he really was. After seeing that Vamana was really Vishnu, Mahabali, now banished to the underworld, requested to be allowed to visit Kerala once each year because he was so fond of his people. Vishnu was incredibly moved by the request and the king’s kindness and so he granted Mahabali’s wish and told Mahabali that he would always be dearly loved by his people.

And there you have it. I’m certain I’ve missed details, but I think I covered the basics of the story so everyone reading can understand why Onam is a big deal. People prepare for Mahabali’s return for 9 days, and then on the tenth day, his spirit visits and is pleased to see everybody partaking in large meals (the Onam Sadhya) and playing games and enjoying one another’s company. Just like during his reign.

14379705_10100158149579494_7129763482045447537_o — Homemade Onam Sadhya (minus the rice). There’s a specific order in how things are served. Anywhere from 11 to 34 dishes are prepared. The food should be served on a banana leaf and rice is the center of the meal. Pappadum is always to the extreme left, then a banana, then salt, banana and yam chips, ginger pickle, lime pickle, mango pickle, next are the chutnies (beetroot) and ullikitchadi, cabbage thoran (with coconut), avial (another dish with vegetables and coconut), and another thoran made of beans. After the heaping pile of rice is scooped, dal curry (lentils) and ghee are poured on top. After half the rice is consumed, then sambar curry is poured on the rice. After that, a second round of rice can be taken with pulisseri (curry made with yogurt). Then, if one can eat all that, payasam is served for dessert. Phew!

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We got to celebrate Thiruvonam twice is year – once on the actual holiday itself, and then again ten days later when the institute’s, where my husband works, students put on their own celebration. I recorded a lot of the parades and the games, and now our daughter can’t go more than a couple hours without asking to watch “daddy play musical chairs” or the clip of the “drummers and the Tigers.” And I’ve listened to the rhythmic drum beats about 800 times now, but I’m not sick of it yet. She gets so excited watching it, and then explaining to me how scared she was that day when she saw the “tigers” dancing down the hallway.

screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-6-31-40-pm — “Mommy, da tigahs!”

I usually get a huge lump in my throat because I know this is such a blessing for her. Regardless of how torn I may be on my rough days here, she’s is undoubtedly lucky to be sharing in the spectacles of both her mother’s and father’s cultures. Evelyn and I are going to the US next month for three months, so we’ll be there for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, so she’ll get to share in MY favorite American holiday traditions. But as usual, I’m split down the middle – feeling horribly guilty about leaving my husband and knowing we will miss him the entire time were gone, but nonetheless excited to eat ALL THE PUMPKIN and wear sweaters, scarves, and boots. And to see my family too – people who always understand my sarcasm and dry sense of humor. People who just, you know, get me. Zac gets me, and probably better than anyone else, but I still don’t know about everybody else. 😂 Before I pour out my heart and soul again with things you’ve read in, I think, every single post I’ve ever written, I’ll sign off. To all you Malayalees out there – I hope I did your festival a little bit of justice. It certainly is exciting to participate in.

The Beginning of Our Story

“It is written.” That’s right. I’m going with a Slumdog Millionaire theme for this entry (which, ironically, I had never seen until my flight home from our India wedding). Curled up in my small airline seat, hungover on elation and exhaustion, I felt immediate sympathy for Jamal Malik as he went through hell and high water to be with Latika. My goodness, did I feel for him. While my love story didn’t have the violence and perilous-ness that Jamal’s did, I’m sure our hearts went through the same emotions.

This post began its slow formation on Christmas Day, when I was chatting with my cousin on Facebook, and he said, “The days are long but the years are short.” It was in reference, of course, to how fast Evelyn was growing, but it got me thinking back through the last several years. How fast they’ve all gone and how unbelievable it is that I’m here, and how, back when I was unmarried, each day seemed like a long, lonely struggle. I thought back through the all nighters with a sick infant, through the joys of watching Evelyn learn a new word or take a step, through the arguments and tears, through the 15-24 hours flights to and from India, through the tearful hello’s and goodbyes, through the “I love you’s” and “I miss you’s,” through the uncertainty, the heartache, the breakdowns, through Zac leaving the U.S., and finally meeting Zac for the first time. The year and a half we spent getting to know each other was a complete whirlwind. He was not an easy person to get to know, this mysterious Indian of mine, but he was so easy to talk to, and he was a great listener. I spent the initial months after meeting him pretending I was much cooler and more sophisticated than I actually was, but when I realized he would much rather watch “Rocky” and eat frozen pizzas with me, I heaved a huge sigh of relief, took my makeup off and threw on my sweatpants. And I never looked back. When he had to leave, amidst promises that he did love me and wanted to marry, I was utterly devastated. He called me from Newark International to say his final goodbye, and I collapsed on the stairs in the back room of Walgreens, where I worked as an assistant manager at the time. I don’t remember crying much, but I started to feel numb as my brain and heart were pulled in two different directions. My mind said, “You’ll never see him again. Once he gets assimilated back to his culture, he will drop you like a bag of dirt.” My heart, foolish thing that it was, said, “Don’t lose hope. You love each other. You will be together.” But how? How, how, how, how? – I kept wondering, and I had no answers. I had no plans. Nothing. I so very clearly remember, after he left the U.S. in August 2010, spending so many nights sleepless and in tears because I thought wishing and praying for a marriage to a man from such a traditional culture was hopeless. That he would turn around and marry a Malayalee woman who would bring money or gold or land or a successful career to the table, when all I could bring was my complete love and devotion (and sarcastic wit). But Zac is anything but traditional, and I am the most loyal person I know, so by God’s grace (and with the help of supportive family members and friends), here we are. I’m actually crying as I’m writing this because that was not a good time in my life at all. It was emotionally draining, and I don’t know how I did it.

Pretty sure many people thought I was crazy too. I could see it in the raised eyebrows and questionable looks when I would explain the situation – I have a sort of boyfriend/fiancé but nothing was or could be official because his culture is different from mine and those things are frowned upon without family approval. Crazy, indeed. I mean, I did EVERYTHING that Western culture tells you not to do when you’re uncertain about your relationship – I pretty much put my life on hold. I stayed in a job I didn’t like all that much to save as much money as I could for a wedding I wasn’t sure would actually ever happen, I devoted time every. single. day. for either writing to him or skyping with him. Good grief, this all sounds so pathetic in writing. Zac, for his part, did the best he could to be reassuring about everything. But time and space can do horrible things to your mind, especially when you’re alone, and that’s when doubt and hopelessness seep in. Zac also had cultural responsibilities weighing on his mind through this. He wasn’t sure how easy marriage to an American woman would be accepted, so he had to choose the right way to approach and the right time to ask. That’s something that I struggled with for a long time because I didn’t fully understand the Indian family dynamic. It was the opposite of what I did – I swept in to my parents’ living room, crying of course, and said essentially, “I love him, I want to marry him, and TOO BAD if you don’t like it.” (Side note – they’ve always liked Zac and heartily approved). I want to be clear though that I didn’t go through all this struggle because I thought Zac would make me happy. I went through it because I wanted my best friend always in my life. When I say we are the same person simply molded by different parts of the world, it’s not an exaggeration. We are both lazy, messy procrastinators. It’s a wonder we are both able to function properly in society, but we also push each other to be better people. We laugh at the same jokes, have the same basic desires (sit at home and do nothing), and we think the same things at the same times, it’s almost otherworldly.

He is and has been my greatest encourager. He has pushed me so far out of my comfort zone that I am certain I could accomplish anything the universe throws at me. He knows how much I’ve sacrificed to get this marriage in place. I can see it in his eyes when I catch him quietly watching Evelyn and me reading together. I can hear it in his voice when he insists we hire someone to cook or clean because I have done enough. I am enough. Sometimes, he simply tells me things like, “Life is good with you and Evelyn. I couldn’t be happier.” My husband isn’t a person who doles out the compliments either, so when he says it, he means it.

I stood in front of the Taj Mahal a little less than a month ago, in absolute awe of its pristine beauty. It’s the great testament of love, of course, that Shah Jahan had for his Mumtaz – the intricate designs of the marble and the symmetry and hidden meaning in every curve and arch, and the overall majesty of the place, make it very clear. It certainly pales to any “testament of love” I can give to my husband. This is all I can give, along with lots of hugs and kisses. That, through everything, my love and hope burned strong enough to keep me going, even when all logic suggested otherwise. I would do it all again and choose you a hundred thousand times over, Zac. I would not have changed anything because then we may not have been brought right to where we are now. It was written for us to be together. I have no other explanation for it. I made my choices to pursue marriage with you, but at the time, it didn’t feel like a choice. There was no other acceptable option for me. And I haven’t truly realized that until now. I hope you know how much I love you. And here’s to our fourth year of marriage and all the others that are to come.

A Passage Back to India

I almost didn’t come back to India on July 8, 2015. The car ride to JFK International is excruciating on its own, but then to have a toddler who can’t stand to be in a car seat for more than 20 minutes and unbelievable emotional turmoil inside my stomach, I almost postponed the journey – by two weeks or three weeks or a month or two months. I didn’t know. We stopped at Long John Silvers (of all places) to eat, and I managed to gag down some fish and a hush puppie or two, but then I puked it all back up when we were 30 minutes from the airport. Stuck in traffic, of course. I was a hot mess. And I was worried that the nausea wouldn’t go away. Could I handle a 20 hour plane journey with a 1.5 year old and constant nausea? Nope. And so I decided to call Zac and tell him I wasn’t going to leave that day. I stood outside a smelly Dunkin Donuts gas station and called my husband, who said he would completely support whatever decision I made.

And so, when we reached JFK, I left my bags in the car and marched through the doors, fully intent on convincing Kuwait airways to postpone my flight without charging me an arm and a leg. But as I looked at the queues and the suitcases and huddled families, I realized I wasn’t alone, and my nausea all but disappeared. I turned to my dad, who had come with me, and asked him what to do. Here’s the thing about my dad – he hates leaving his house for any length of time. Hates it. His idea of a vacation is to stay home, run every morning, and take naps. And mow the lawn. So I thought for sure he would be supporting the postponement idea. But he didn’t. He said, “Brittany, once you get on that flight, you’ll be fine. You can do this. If you postpone it by two weeks, a month, it doesn’t matter. You’ll have to go through all of this again, all the goodbyes, the long drive, everything.” I knew he was right, and I rushed out, got my bags, and checked in to my flight. Said the hardest goodbyes to my parents, who were both sobbing while I tried to be the strong one (didn’t work). And then I left, praying with each step, “Please, God; please, God; please, God.” Please, God, what? Please, God, don’t let me barf on the plane? Please, God, don’t let Evelyn scream for the whole plane ride? Please, God, don’t let me get stuck at Kuwait International Airport? Please, God, don’t let the plane fall in the ocean? Whatever it was, He knew my heart and answered those prayers. And a short 11 hour plane journey later, I was in Kuwait, and another short 9 hours later, I was hugging my husband inside Trivandrum International Airport.

And now I’ve been back for over a month and a half, and I’ve had time to reflect on exactly why I went berserk….inside myself. And I think most of it was guilt. Guilt of taking Evelyn away from my parents and extended family. Guilt of taking Evelyn away from a place where she had SO MUCH space to roam freely. Guilt of not having an answer on when I would be back to the United States again. And, most of all, guilt for not being that sad about leaving. Oh, sure, I was sad. I love my family dearly. I would and do miss them. And I would miss lots of other things – the television shows, the food, the easy peasy traffic, the fact that there just aren’t that many people in Sullivan County, Pennsylvania. The freedom to pick up and go wherever I want at anytime. But, much more than the sadness, I was anxious. Anxious to get the goodbyes done and over, anxious to get the plane ride over, anxious to see and touch Zac again. To see him smile. Hear him laugh. To get our life back together.

Therein lies the crux of the matter, I suppose. I didn’t feel that I felt sad enough about leaving. But if I allowed myself to feel split in half like I had the first time I left for India, then I don’t think I could have ever come back. I guess you could call it a survival mechanism. Or perhaps I’ve realized that it’s not the end of the world when you move abroad. There are airplanes, Skype, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and a myriad of other ways to keep in touch. It adds depth to my experience because I am forced to share the details of my everyday life here. I am forced to constantly examine how I feel about giving up the ease of my previous life and finding ways to add peacefulness and simplicity to this life in India. And I keep in better touch with my family now than I ever did when I was in the United States. I am forced to make time to chat with my parents so they can watch their granddaughter giggle. I am forced to take the extra 5 seconds and send Snapchats of my life to my brother, cousins, and aunts. You know, I was trying to find a good quote or two about to slam in here about being an expatriate, but so many of them are about wanderlust and being addicted to travel, and I don’t really think that’s me (except for going to see the Taj Mahal. My darling husband, if you’re reading this, make it happen). I am just a small town girl who happened to meet and fall in love and marry a foreigner, and then I had to move abroad. I am simply an American mom who lives in a non-American house. There is no wanderlust here. I didn’t move abroad because I wanted to be immersed in another culture or because I wanted to see the world. Those are just added perks. Anyway, I only found two quotes that I felt comfortable sharing. One by David Sedaris:

“LIFE MIGHT BE DIFFICULT FOR A WHILE, BUT I WOULD TOUGH IT OUT BECAUSE LIVING IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY IS ONE OF THOSE THINGS THAT EVERYONE SHOULD TRY AT LEAST ONCE. MY UNDERSTANDING WAS THAT IT COMPLETED A PERSON, SANDING DOWN THE ROUGH PROVINCIAL EDGES AND TRANSFORMING YOU INTO A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. WHAT I FOUND APPEALING IN LIFE ABROAD WAS THE INEVITABLE SENSE OF HELPLESSNESS IT WOULD INSPIRE. EQUALLY EXCITING WOULD BE THE WORK INVOLVED IN OVERCOMING THAT HELPLESSNESS. THERE WOULD BE A GOAL INVOLVED, AND I LIKED HAVING GOALS.”

And one by Miriam Adeney:

“YOU WILL NEVER BE COMPLETELY AT HOME AGAIN, BECAUSE PART OF YOUR HEART ALWAYS WILL BE ELSEWHERE. THAT IS THE PRICE YOU PAY FOR THE RICHNESS OF LOVING AND KNOWING PEOPLE IN MORE THAN ONE PLACE.”

An absolute “yes” to both of these. Richness, overcoming helplessness, transformation, toughing it out. All of this has been my life so far. I would add humility to the list as well. Because nothing teaches you how very little you know about life and the world quite like living in another culture, especially a non-Western culture. Nothing teaches you better how to appreciate what you have and not be wasteful quite like seeing another human being who has absolutely nothing and nowhere to go. Nothing teaches you how to love your spouse more deeply quite like seeing headlines of young couples murdered because they fell in love and married. Nothing teaches you to hug your daughter more tightly better than knowing you’re living in country where they are still fighting to save the girl child. These, along with all the beauty of India, are part of the realities.

And, now, back to my reality. It’s been a pretty busy month and a half. The apartment was essentially a hazmat area when I arrived, and that was after Zac had hired a maid and she cleaned up a lot. So I immediately, jet lag and all, threw myself into cleaning and throwing away junk. I’ve also been packing because we’ve decided to move to a place where Evelyn and I will both have much more freedom to roam about. I have started making more Indian food – Kerala red fish curry, chicken biryani, aloo tikki, dosa, idlis, chutneys, various vegetable curries, rotis. It’s all gotten me in to a good routine, even a better one than before. I was a little worried that maybe I would be homesick or sad once I got back to India, but I haven’t been. There are things that make me rage every now and then – power cuts; the heat; our maid; the heat; cultural differences; the heat; the issue of NO ONE following traffic laws my goodness; the heat, dear Lord, THE HEAT. I sweat through every single piece of clothing I have. So, yes, there are moments and hours and even days of frustrations, but if I don’t dwell, it gets better. If I dwell, it gets worse. Anyway, I can assuredly say that I haven’t been been sad or depressed. How could I be? Our little family has been reunited. My physical home may be the United States of America, but my real home is wherever Zac and Evelyn are. I love them both so dearly. Plus, we live like 5 minutes from the beach. For real, how could I be sad? I get to watch Evelyn chase baby goats when we go for evening walks. I get to listen to Evelyn try to string together words and then hear Zac laugh at whatever she is trying to say. A few days ago, I ate the traditional Onam meal that is served on a banana leaf. I ate a meal on a banana leaf, people. How cool is that? Even if we’re just sitting at home, eating dinner and watching “Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade,” I am super aware of how much joy is in my life. I remember Zac telling me one time that he didn’t know what he did right in his life for God to be so gracious and give him such wonderful gifts (Evelyn and me). Well, I don’t know what I’ve done right either. But I am so grateful.

I am hoping to start blogging more now, but with a toddler who likes to make demands as soon as she sees mommy get comfortable, I’m not sure if it’s going to be possible. Hopefully, you guys will stick with on this chapter of our journey.

Our Baby’s First Birthday

Evelyn Grace, born January 18, 2014, at 1:12 pm.

You’re my honey bunch

Sugar plum

I read this great quote on motherhood the other day. I can’t remember the exact wording of it, but the woman said motherhood is like discovering a new room that you’ve never seen before in your own house. Really, that is just so spot on. I am the same person I always was, I still laugh at the same kind of jokes, I still like the same foods, I still like to go see new places. But before Evelyn came along, there were lots of things about myself that I never thought I needed to change. Now that she’s here, my self-examination has increased TO THE MAX, and I am trying so hard to become the best person I can be…for her. The kindest, the least selfish, the most joyful, the most forgiving, the strongest, the healthiest. I fail at many (all right, all of them) of these a lot of the time, but that’s okay. I’m improving each day. My darling husband likes to tell me that at least I know there are things about myself I can improve, most people never even get that far. It’s hard, and I think it’s been the hardest thing about being a parent, constantly wanting to improve yourself to be the best example to your child.

Pummy yummy yumpkin

You’re my sweetie pie

And, as for my husband, he and I both had our unspoken worries about our married life before Little Bean debuted. I don’t think either of us voiced our concerns until much later, when it was clear our marriage was stronger than ever. Sure things are different now. It’s hard for us to have normal conversations that we used to have all the time, our dinners out have decreased, our “us” time is just….less. And sometimes I miss the pre-baby marriage, the eating meals together, watching movies together uninterrupted, taking a weekend trip just to get away. I know those will all come back in due time. But you see the song lyrics I am posting on here, yes? Well, it’s Evelyn’s new favorite song that she has listened to approximately 3,572 times this week. And on one of the evenings, Zac sat with her and tried desperately to learn the lyrics as quickly as he could so he could sing it to her later on, and when the line “I want you to know/I’ll always be right here” he sang it and wrapped his arms around her, and oh my gosh, my throat tightened and my eyes filled up and nothing, NOTHING that made me fall in love with him in the first place compared to the intense rush of love I felt towards him at that moment. And it’s these moments that I hold on to and think of whenever the feeling of “Well, when have Zac and I had our last legitimate conversation?” gets me.

You’re my cuppy cake

Gum drop

Another thing I have caught myself remembering over the last year has been my own childhood. In fact, Zac and I have argued who had the better childhood. It was me, clearly. 😉 But I don’t have a single bad memory, not even when both of my parents had lost their jobs, they never let on that we were struggling for money. Never. Whenever I got sick of my parents, it was off to an exciting night at Gram and Gramp’s house or off to bother my cousin, Daniel, and my aunt, Deb, (who I still bother….a lot) for the day. My dad always took the time out of his week to take Daniel and me to a playground, or for a bike ride, or would just play a ball game with us. My mom always decorating for holidays and taking the time to build an atmosphere so special that I still get a warmth in my heart when I think of those days. The excitement building up in the days preceding a trip to Knoebel’s Amusement Park or just a day at Rickett’s Glen. Decorating sugar cookies at Christmas time. Blowing out candles on a birthday cake after hearing a waaay off-key “Happy Birthday” tune. I want Evelyn to have memories like I do; to be able to confidently think, “I had the best childhood. NO ONE had a better one than me.”

Snookums snookums

You’re the apple of my eye

And I’m really trying to give Evelyn the best childhood I can. So far, I have done things exactly the way I have wanted (labor and delivery excluded). I have breastfed for an entire year, something that, at times, I just didn’t think was going to be possible. I had no one knowledgeable about breastfeeding close to me, so I had to forge that path on my own. It was painful, confusing, tiring (especially in the first few weeks), and you would not believe how many variations of “Is your milk enough for her?” I heard. But I didn’t quit. My baby’s barely been sick in this first year of her life. Is that because of my milk? I’d like to think so, but I’m not totally sure. Something else I’ve done that people cautioned me against – I held my baby. Like, all the time. Because I wanted to, because she wanted me to, to stop her crying, etc. And ohhhh….there’s SO MUCH that people want to say about that! People are in such a rush for babies to become “independent” or so they “don’t trouble” the parents. I heard all the reasons – “She’ll get too used to your body heat,” “She’ll never learn to crawl/walk/be independent,” “Let her cry for a while, it’s okay.” Yeah, I never listened to any of that, and now she’s well on her way to walking, crawls around like Spiderman scales a building, and is so ridiculously independent sometimes that I even feel a little left out while she’s entertaining herself.

And I love you so

And I want you to know

The only time she’s not ridiculously independent is when she knows her daddy is nearby. Oh, is she a daddy’s girl. She always has been, ever since she was a tiny newborn. And she was so tiny. I remember, maybe when she was a month old, my husband asking me, with concern in his voice, how could we keep such a small thing alive? Now, here she is, a year old. A little girl whose wild hair won’t stay combed down, a little girl who says “Caw caw” whenever she sees an animal, a little girl who looks like she could burst from joy just from seeing me every morning she wakes, a little girl who gets excited, waves and blows kisses to her daddy when she sees him coming home from work, a little girl who prefers to crawl in dirt and play with dried leaves than any other toy she has, a little girl who has better rhythm than both her father and mother, a little girl who will try any new food at least once, a little girl who covers her eyes when you ask “Where’s Evelyn? Where’d she go?,” a little girl who hates the confinement of an airplane, a little girl who, when she’s standing at our gate on our front porch, looks like she wants to conquer the world…or at least the stairs.

That I’ll always be right here

And I love to sing sweet songs for you

And she’s conquered a lot in her short time here so far. We took her on a boat ride when she was less than two weeks old (Let’s not discuss the safety issues. It’s India, after all, just go with it.). She went to a US Embassy in Chennai to gain her US citizenship when she was three months old. She dipped her feet in the Arabian Sea when she was five months old. She’s bathed and touched an Asian elephant. She’s ridden a camel and has seen the Golden Temple. She went along for the ride, but not one of these things did she give two hoots about. All she wanted was her Daddy to hold her and play “choo choo” train or for her Mommy to nurse her to sleep.

Because you are sooo dear

For the past few days, I’ve been reminded of some song lyrics – I think it’s a song by The Killers – that I used to think of a lot when she was first born: “But don’t you let them tame you/You’re far too pure and bold.” I’m pretty sure the song it comes from has nothing whatsoever to do with raising a child, but I love these lines for Evelyn. I want her to not be affected by what our cultures, both Indian and American, expect for females. I want her to create her own path, to be bold and unafraid, in family, in love, in forgiveness, in confrontation, in pursuing her dreams. And even if she is afraid, which is totally okay, I want her to have the courage to do it afraid. So I encourage her to explore as much as possible, to see that the big world out there isn’t so scary, and it’s fine if she gets bumps or scratches or gets dirty along the way. Those things are temporary, but what she can discover about herself while exploring can last a lifetime. She’s our strong little girl, who I am so, so proud of already. I wish that I could truly express the joy and happiness that I have in my heart, but I can’t seem to do it to my satisfaction. So, I’ll end with this – Happy Birthday to our sweet Little Bean. God has blessed us so much by letting us be your parents.

Where Is the Time Going? AKA Why I’m a Terrible Housewife

Oh my word, I haven’t written since when….May? I see over the past 4 months or so, I’ve started three posts and never finished any. I just haven’t had time or the desire, honestly. Haven’t really had the time because of baby, but I also had the bright idea to fire our maid to save us money (and also because she stole some things). WHAT the hell was I thinking? I could barely take care of my musty old apartment in Johnson City, NY. In fact, I’m sure my parents will tell you, I could barely take care of my own room when I lived with them. And also – THIS IS INDIA where life, in general, is about five times more difficult than in the United States. And I’m a spoiled white lady – why did I think I could handle it with a baby on top of it? I’m a complete domestic failure! I skip sweeping for one day, and you should see the amount of dirt and bugs that show up. It’s unreal. And I can’t figure out why I’m so bad at it – there’s not all that much work to do. We have a smaller apartment. Is it because I didn’t have any practice with it before and after Evelyn was born? Is it because I’m just naturally messy and lazy, so it’s going to be a struggle forever? Because I totally thought I could do all the housework, the cooking, take care of Evelyn, maybe throw in a workout and once in a while, a blog entry. Yeah, I really thought that. And then the other day, “Sex and the City 2” was on, and it was a scene with two of the women (sorry, I don’t know their names) taking swigs from their cocktails while confessing things like “Being a mom is soooo hard! And it’s even harder without help!” And I am so ashamed to admit that I nodded in agreement. The thing is I know there are plenty of women who can handle it. My mom did, and she had a full time job then too. I am just not one of those women, at least not in India. It’s already tough enough living in a non-Western culture. So about two or three weeks ago, after caring for a sick hubby and baby and letting the house go to pot, I cried to my hubby and told him to hire a new maid. There’s going to come a time when I won’t be able to have a maid anymore, so I’m going to try and enjoy the help while I can.

And I haven’t really had a desire to write anything because how much can I write about parenting that hasn’t been said? I had started a post about differences between US and Indian parenting, from my perspective, but it was really just turning into me complaining about the aspects of US parenting that I felt were too cold and scientific and complaining about the aspects of Indian parenting that I felt were too based on old wives’ tales and superstitions. So I’ve decided to wait to write that post until I’m maybe a little less….ummm….emotional. Also – I’ve been soooo tired forever. Whoever said babies start sleeping longer once they’re on solids was a liar. Evelyn wakes more frequently now than she ever did. My baby went backwards – slept awesome in the beginning, not so much now.

That being said, failed housewife or not, I love being a mom. I think I have written something similar in every blog post since she was born. But it gets truer all the time. Evelyn is so much fun. As I am writing this, I have to keep grabbing hold of her diaper so she doesn’t somersault off her blankets and bonk her head on the tile floor, which she’s done a few times. She laughs hysterically at clothes pins and our terrace lamp post, waves hello and goodbye, loves to eat chicken and bananas and toast, wants to maul my husband’s mathematics books whenever she gets the chance, bounces up and down when “All About That Bass” is playing, and smiles and laughs when she looks at photos of herself. She’s becoming more of a person right before my eyes. For the last week or so, it feels like every night, when my husband and I are in the bedroom watching her sleep, one of us always says to other, “She is such a sweet baby.” I am so impressed with her. And I am pretty impressed with myself, quite frankly. I have learned how to master several tasks using only one hand and a baby in the other- cooking pretty much anything, loading and unloading the washing machine, carrying the laundry to the terrace to dry, showering, washing my face, brushing my teeth, sweeping the floor. I’ve also done some things that I’m sure I would be scolded for. Do I let her chew on the TV remote so I can drink my first cup of coffee in peace in the morning? ABSOLUTELY. Let her press buttons on my cellphone so I can get dressed in the morning? YES.

And I’ve been getting very homesick lately. It’s going on a year since I came back to India, and I will be going to the US at the end of March 2015. My dear husband is keeping a countdown for me, so I know there’s six months left. It’ll go by so fast, I know, and once I’m there, I’ll miss my husband terribly. But it’s little things that help cure my homesickness while I’m here. Like, we went out to eat at a European style cafe this weekend, and they were playing classic rock. I rocked out to Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain.” And, this was my favorite thing about the whole place, they served me iced tea in a tiny mason jar. It was the best thing and totally what I needed. That’ll have to hold me over until I go home where I’ve made my mom save ridiculous recipes like “buffalo chicken lasagna” and “s’mores pizza rollups.” I’ve also requested her to buy and save as many pumpkin flavored foods as she can. And I plan on eating bacon EVERY SINGLE MORNING and taking Evelyn outside to toddle around my parents’ yard EVERY SINGLE DAY. Maybe all day. Because I can. Yes, I’m excited to go home for a visit, but at the same time, I want this year to slow the heck down. Evelyn will be well over a year old when I take her. I’m not ready for that! So for as much as I am looking forward to my trip home I do not want to wish this time away. It’s such an awesome privilege to be her mother. And, for as much as perhaps I’ve complained (?) in this post, it’s such a privilege to have this experience here in India, sharing it with my husband and Evelyn, in all its frustrating (at times) glory. I wouldn’t change a thing….except maybe I wouldn’t have fired our maid. 😉

Hmmm...what is that delicious thing you're drinking, Mom? — Hmmm…what is that delicious thing you’re drinking, Mom?