How Did You Change After You Left India?

“Years passed, and I continued to reconcile myself to fit the mould of contrasting cultures. Canada fed me and clothed me and gave me a roof over my head. I was Canadian, even my passport confirmed it, but my parents and grandparents continued to hold tightly to the remnants of our far away homeland. They helped me stay fluent in my mother tongue. They passed on values that would have otherwise faded from my eight year old mind like puddles of water in the Canadian sun.”

My earliest memories are of my nose pressed against the cold car window, watching the scenery change from the humid streets of Chandigarh’s Sector 54 to the mountainous roads of Jammu & Kashmir. My father was a Bridge Engineer and we’d spend our school vacations with him at hill stations scattered around the Himalayas. It may have been the naiveté of my childhood, or the tendency of the mind to romanticize the past, but those times seemed simpler.I was almost eight when my parents decided we would move to Canada. It didn’t strike me as anything out of the ordinary; I was accustomed to moving. I was used to short-lived friendships and houses that never got the chance to become homes. My brother was my only constant friend and home was wherever my family was.

We crossed the oceans from a country that had been kind to my father, to one that would one day be yet kinder to his children. Like seeds we were scattered by the wind beneath the plane’s wings, carried to unfamiliar soil and left to grow. Our first Canadian apartment was small, only a fraction of what we were used to back in India. For a while we shared the house with empty kitchen cabinets and barren walls that reminded us we were outsiders. My parents knew a few families in Canada – they were old friends who had arrived before we did and helped us adjust to the foreignness like they once experienced.

Through them my father found work, and we began to see him less and less. At first it was difficult to understand why he chose to leave behind a comfortable life for one that asked him to work harder and longer than ever before. My questions resolved themselves as time passed and I grew a bit older and a little wiser. The kids at school were friendly, but we differed in more than just the shades of our skin. We spoke the same language, but it didn’t sound the same. I listened to their accents, and slowly but surely, my lips learned to imitate theirs. The changes were ample, but I assimilated quickly in the way only children can.

Things were different for my parents; I can still hear the reminiscent sound of home in their voices. My peers find it hard to understand how I can enjoy the feeling of heat leaving my ears as I eat food too hot for them to digest. My taste for spicy cuisine was inherited from my mother and her cabinet full of some spices my school friends couldn’t even recognize. I have learned to like poutine and pancakes, but being a product of two cultures, I will forever add a spoon of cumin, a pinch of turmeric, and a dash of cayenne to my pastas and casseroles.

After a few years, my parents were able to sponsor our loved ones to come share the cold Canadian soil with us. My father brought over his parents, and my mother’s siblings came on student visas. We moved to a larger house and my notions of what family was expanded with the extra space. To my school friends family was just their mothers and fathers. To me it included my grandparents and the large network of aunts, uncles and cousins that I referred to as my brothers.

My mom’s brother, my Mamaji, lived with us while attending his final year of high school at the local school I would one day attend. He claimed that most of the curriculum was a repeat of what he had already learnt, placing him at an advantage. He aced all his classes and got accepted in to the country’s top engineering university. Since his graduation from there, he has moved up the corporate ladder and now works for a company in Chicago south of the Canadian border. He has worked hard, and this country has rewarded him for his efforts. I can only aspire to achieve the kind of success he enjoys.

Mamaji has been my role model from very early on; he set the bar for what my parents sought for me and my future. They made their expectations clear from the beginning: education was my priority and I was to become the best of the best. I now realize that this is a common expectation of immigrant parents. After a Canadian education, the only thing that could stand in my way was me. I could do and become absolutely anything as long as I was motivated, and willing to work for it. Raised with privileges they had learned to take for granted, this was a mind-set the kids in my classes couldn’t fathom. Although I was encouraged to do my best even while in India, the sad reality was that back there was always a limit to how much I could achieve based on my social status and the fact that I was a girl. We moved to Canada so I could receive equal and unbounded opportunity.

It’s common knowledge among immigrant parents that they aren’t going to be the ones to achieve their dreams. They work hard and labor in order to provide their children with a chance. It took me a while to understand the entirety of my parents’ sacrifice, but here I am now with the obligation to fulfil the dream that was passed along to me. When I was young my classmates would often remark that Indian parents were innately stricter, and as a result their children were over-achievers. I could never convey the reality of my situation to them for our motivations were beyond their understanding.

Years passed, and I continued to reconcile myself to fit the mould of contrasting cultures. Canada fed me and clothed me and gave me a roof over my head. I was Canadian, even my passport confirmed it, but my parents and grandparents continued to hold tightly to the remnants of our far away homeland. They helped me stay fluent in my mother tongue. They passed on values that would have otherwise faded from my eight year old mind like puddles of water in the Canadian sun.

Although to them this has also begun to emulate home, they still consider us to be outsiders in a foreign land. We have been friendly with our neighbors, but I have also been taught to recognize our differences where I was always looking for ways to blend. I can see the difference in the way we assimilated when looking down the rungs of generations. Like me, my family has adapted, but everyone has done so to varying degrees. My grandfather had always been an activist. In India he was the elected head of his village, so he was naturally inclined to seek a familiar position once he moved here. He joined a group of local Indian seniors to create an organization that would help newcomers network and familiarize themselves with one another.

As chairman of a Senior’s Club he has hosted yearly carnivals which bring the ever-growing local Indian community together. The events not only help people find common ground and make connections, but also host fundraisers to support new immigrants in finding places to live. When asked about his experience here, he says he wouldn’t have it any other way. To support his claim he recites the stories of friends back in India who spent their entire lives labouring, but only earned enough to pay their dues. He claims he is happier here than he was in India for Canada is truly is the land of opportunity.

In terms of myself, I now dress like my Canadian classmates and speak like my neighbors, but I am unlike them in more ways than their stereotypes can help them understand. It’s true that I have a large network of family, a taste for spicy cuisine, and watch Bollywood ‘musicals’, but their understanding of my Indian roots is limited.

My large network of family is sprawled all around the world; like me they too have adapted in the places they have been scattered to. My mother’s cousin married an Indian woman from Germany and emigrated there after his wedding. While my family spoke English before we came to Canada, he was forced to learn an alien tongue. During his six years as a German resident. He agrees that it’s been hard for him, but proudly identifies himself as an Indian-German nevertheless. Unlike me his relocation was driven by love, and he supports his decision despite the hardships.

As grateful as I am, I can’t dismiss the struggles of receiving conflicted upbringings. We are the products of our influences, but when our influences contradict one another, what do we become? I have been raised in a country that puts an emphasis on freedom, but the very idea of granting it to their daughter frightened my conservative parents. Despite having moved to Canada for equality, they believe daughters are the responsibility of their parents before marriage, and subsequently become the responsibility of their husbands. This is an idea I refuse to accept, having been brought up to appreciate a liberal way of thinking.

My contrasting cultures demand different roles, and after years of adjusting and adapting, I’ve learned to fit them both. North-American values have taught me independence, and my Indian roots have granted me compassion. I have learnt to be resilient, while still fighting for myself. I pay homage to my parents’ values, but refuse to be limited by my gender even beyond the scope of my education. With an abundance of cultural influences, I feel empowered to be able to pick and choose the parts of each that suit my best interests.

Over the years I have become a woman who can carry the weight of two cultures. There exists an entire group of men and women like myself living in different ways all across the world. We’ve been uprooted and hybridized to fit global cultures, left wondering whether we can ever return and fit into the place we once called home.

Anu Mann is a freelance writer based in Canada.