from a distance
snowy Sunday reflections as a 1st person-3rd person-1st person sandwich
those we leave
Growing up first gen, I thought a lot about first gen and immigrant experiences. They were the most tangible. My sister and I are first gen, and our parents are immigrants. Until my visit to India this month, I hadn’t given very much thought to those we leave behind.
Seeing extended family and strangers step in and lend a hand to my grandparents brought up mixed feelings of guilt and peace. I felt guilty that my parents and I weren’t there to ease my maternal grandmother’s pain and put food on the table for my grandfather when my grandmother’s relative passed a few months ago. I felt grateful that their neighbor Anjali noticed that my grandmother’s slippers weren’t outside their apartment that morning when my grandfather’s were, knocked on their door to inquire if my grandmother was okay, and pushed out her plans of heading to Bangalore by a few hours so that she could meal prep for my grandfather. My grandparents’ community gives me some solace in them growing old halfway across the world, without us, without the support system that should be there but isn’t.
A few weeks ago, my paternal grandfather had a stroke right before I boarded my flight to India. We’ve never been close, but seeing him struggling to speak and walk felt like a punch to the gut. It felt like a pat compared to the blow that hit 2 weeks later when I told him that I was heading back home the next day. Tears streamed down his cheek as he shook his hand, whispering that he’s never going to see me again. The world around us continued, chaos moving in slow motion: Pedananna hurrying out to catch a flight, Nana gathering his things, Amma trying to get us out the door so that we wouldn’t be late for the number of errands we had to run before I left, the maid trying to give me snacks I never eat. Words failed me. All I could see was the heartbroken look on his face. Everyone’s leaving, everyone always leaves.
her walking speed
She walks slower now, but faster than those around her. Over the course of six months of living in Boston, she’s noticed how New England has brought out a different version of herself. One who’s life looks a lot like work, gym, read, and repeat. One who prefers to stay in and spend the bulk of her free time on her own. One who goes to the same cafe across the street instead of trying new ones. She’s living a life that seems so boring but feels anything but. She’s a sheer 180° from her New York counterpart who’s always running around, coming home only to shower and rest her head on a pillow.
Both versions are right and true. Both make her feel more alive in different ways. Their opposing nature is confusing. She ponders if their average is the perfect medium, and if the medium represents who she truly is. She wonders what her walking speed would be agnostic of where she is, for her walking speed anywhere she sets foot is a product of who she truly is and what the place draws out of her.
The overlap of who she is in Boston and was in New York, and what she feels drawn towards regardless of where she is teach her more about who she truly is. Through the portal of places and time, she finds herself gradually becoming.
nature’s healing
The day before going out of office never fails to be an Olympic sport. So there I was, at Tatte (like a latte) on New Year’s Eve Eve, sporting a dingy engineering student college fit from my past: an olive green Jasper National Park sweatshirt, Costco joggers, and founding father hair. As I was hunched over, zoomed in on Figma while clacking away on Slack, some guy bothered me just as I reached flow state. I popped out of my haze as he asked me if I could move my bag and jacket so that he could take a seat. Between the last time I’d picked up my head half-an-hour ago and now, the space went from semi-crowded to busting at the seams. Fair ask, but nonetheless annoying. I quickly moved my belongings without breaking eye contact with the Figma.
About twenty minutes later, he asked me if I was a student. He was curious about the Emerson College buildings around us. I replied with a quick “no”, took a deep breath, and decided to actually entertain a stranger for once instead. I turned to face him and we got to talking about Boston, wearables, comedy, hosting, travel, and LA.
As I started packing my things to head home, he asked if I wanted to join him at the next cafe he was going to. To my own surprise, I found myself saying “yes”. While our joint time at the next cafe was short-lived because he had to catch a flight back home to LA, it was... pleasant? I’ve spent 10 minutes trying to find a way to describe this encounter, and nothing quite fully encapsulates it. It was better than merely pleasant, a tad geeked-inducing, short of enthralling. It felt right. It felt like a sign from the universe that meeting people in the wild is not a dying art. Thank you for giving me hope, “Chris Boston Cafe Guy from SoCal”, and to myself for taking a step past “no”.
5 bits you didn’t ask for but need to know
If you ever don’t have a hairbrush on you, a fork works surprisingly well.
Green tea is superior to black tea is superior to white tea. White tea sucks.
Our Earth is so goddamn beautiful. It provides like no other. The same plant that gives us bay leaves also lends us a cinnamon-esque spice. The same fruit that gives us a nutmeg also yields mace.
Spending time with babies continues to invoke a profound sense of joy that remains unparalleled to anything else I’ve experienced.
Collaging with the girls is a top-tier life experience.
Alberta mentioned!
nyeah❤️