“After marriage you will be Indian.”
I smiled and quietly laughed at the thought of me, a white American midwesterner, morphing into an Indian.
Then, a Hindu marriage ceremony: Pouring rice on each other's heads, golden necklace, tying knots of silk, putting on toe rings, bangles, bowing to elders and vowing to care for them, walking around fire, ash on foreheads. And, of course, brilliant silk sarees, hennaed hands, splitting coconuts, dancing to joyful Bollywood songs.
Then, being welcomed and accepted into an Indian family: Laughing with nieces, sisters-in-law calling me sister, tears of joy at the wedding, family photos in the living room; making coconut laddoos with (mother-in-law) Aatama, my hands almost twice the size of hers, shaping the melted jaggery and shredded coconut into the coveted sweet spheres.
Driving Aatama and Mamaya to the airport, struggling with bulging suitcases strung together and labeled to arrive on the other side of the world. Witness to tears, I promised to take care of her son. We arrived home to find her pink cotton sari, hanging to dry in the sunroom, left behind.
My new husband moved in and suddenly there was Telugu on my television; video chats with sister-in-law Akka, our bright niece and nephew’s silliness for their Ravi Chinnana (uncle) and Madalyn Pinni (aunt); phone calls to India, with attempts to speak the language: “Me abrogyam ella undi?”
The humbling experience of learning from my husband how to make the food he loves. His expressions of delight after I mastered the curry formula and even made curries he had never tasted. Plus rootis from scratch: hand kneading, rolling, oiling, folding, rolling again, and frying on a dry, hot skillet. Then one day finding myself in Global Foods picking out my own essential ingredients for our Indian kitchen: cumin, turmeric, green chillies, curry leaves, toor dahl... The faint hot tinge of chili powder perpetually on my fingertips.
One item from the Indian grocery I’ve come to rely on is coconut oil, applied after the bath. It ended up curing a skin condition I’ve had since birth. “I think it’s because you were an Indian in a past life,” said Ravi.
“Is that why you feel it’s acceptable to love me?” I ask. “It’s okay to love an American if she were an Indian in a previous life?” We laugh.
There’s always laughter with my lighthearted husband. And sunset runs in the park. Coming home to each other on lunch breaks to devour leftover curries. (No American lunch stop can compare to our own kitchen). We are also developing our own traditions as a new family together.
We celebrated our first Diwali, the festival of light. Wrapped in magenta silk, I drew a muggu (chalk drawing) of a lotus on our threshold. At night we lit diya lamps and candles and placed them throughout the house. Friends gathered for celebratory meals and temple visits, exchanged photos from afar. Our littlest niece Vaishnavi was captured with eyes wide in delight at the bright golden sizzle of a sparkler. Aatama and Mamaya called from Hyderabad to tell of “crackers” going off at all hours after days of celebration.
One of the most memorable moments since the wedding was our visit with Akka to her sister’s Chicago home. We spent the day playing carom, laughing with the children, and looking at wedding photos. As we were about to leave, they asked me to sit down. My Akka’s sister put a vermilion dot on my forehead and gave me a woolen shawl, welcoming me into the family. We video-chatted with their smiling mother in India who said she has a new daughter.
There are temple outings every Sunday with my husband -- me dressed in kurta, dupatta, and gold jhumkis. After the long drive to the white intricately carved temple, towering pyramid of gods, decades ago delivered piece by piece from India and assembled in the middle of suburban Midwest America, we remove our shoes and stand before Ganesha, Durga, Laxmi... watching all the ways Indians worship: circling, prostrating, crossed-arm bobbing squats. We sit in front of Shiva, the God of Destruction, meditating with intentions to clear obstacles for welcoming new beginnings.
I boldly ring the temple bell and eagerly head downstairs for spicy hot masala dosa, mango kulfi sweet, and chai. The “desies” have gotten used to me, the “gori girl” who tries to fit into their world while they try to adapt to mine.
Some who see my occasional Indian dress might accuse me of cultural appropriation. But my saris and silver toe rings were given to me and accepted in earnest. They are one way I can outwardly display the culture of the Indian-American family to which I’ve come to belong, the culture of my home.
My Indian family has shown that being Indian means generosity and acceptance, unwavering commitment to family, duty as the path to fulfillment, celebration year round, and love expressed by taking care of one another. Those are values I’m proud to take on. In less than six months after my wedding, I must admit that my Aatama was right.
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