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During our first month in India, my daughter was asked one question with some regularity. The conversation went something like this.
“Do you like India?”“No.”“Why?”“Because the buffaloes stink.”
Depending on the day, for a 6-year-old, moving to another country is either a huge life event or just another adventure.
Like most American-born kids, my daughter Shreya wondered if she would get pizza and ketchup in India and if the kids in school would speak English. When the first baby tooth started wiggling just prior to our departure, she was worried.
“Will the tooth fairy come to India?” she asked repeatedly. “Will she bring me a silver dollar, Mommy?” I reassured her that the tooth fairy would come but the Indian one may not have silver dollars to give away.“How about a shiny five-rupee coin then?”“I think she can manage that,” I replied.
Beyond that major dilemma, her concerns are limited and her answers to most questions are very literal. She doesn’t know about political correctness. Most observers are taken aback more by her directness than by her actual responses. The remark about the buffalo prompts the remark, “She is so American. She doesn’t like India.”
That is so not true.
Shreya seems happy most of the time. Sometimes she talks about her friends in California. But, once she starts attending school, the changes in her are remarkable.
She adores her teachers. They are not the dumpy old women of my childhood, wearing dull saris with their oiled hair coiled into a tight bun on top of their heads. Instead, present-day teachers are stylish young ladies wearing wide-bottomed salwars and sequined kurtis. As someone who has always fancied Indian clothes, Shreya is fascinated by the colorful outfits that her teachers sport.
“My teacher is so pretty but she wears ugly shoes,” is her blunt observation.
I look closely to find the reason for this unkind remark. Today’s Indian woman creates her own style without scrimping on comfort; this teacher wears sneakers!
Imitation being the best form of flattery, Shreya comes home and changes into her comfy shorts and t-shirts. In a nod to the elegance of her teachers, she drapes a dupatta around her shoulders. A dab of bright lipstick, pink Hello Kitty shoes, and she is ready to teach a class of pretend preschoolers. Her steady companion, the lovable Arthur the aardvark, rechristened Akhil, is her star student.
“Say the alphabets loudly, children. A, B, C, D, ... Zed.”
Instead of the customary pointed “yes” to indicate an affirmative response, she has found several typically Indian gestures that mean the same. Sometimes she moves her head like wipers on a windshield, or traces diagonals on an imaginary square or even moves her chin from side to side.
Her textbooks have characters with names like Radhika and Ahmed. She learns about Diwali, Id, and Christmas, and “kutcha” and “pucca” houses. Her wardrobe now boasts of Indian outfits with shiny beads, intricate embroidery, and dangling bells.
Shreya is fascinated by long hair and resists any suggestion that she get her hair cut. Impatient at the slow pace of hair growth, she tries to get me to buy her a wig. After losing that battle, she now pins a long strand of flowers in her hair and pretends it is her braid. Each day she discards the dry strand and substitutes it with a fresh one that her grandmother is only too happy to provide.
While most of her newly-acquired traits are adorable, I mourn the sudden loss of her American accent. Her “cow” now sounds very much like mine, as she tries to make friends by trying to be just like her classmates. She now learns her spellings by repeating the letters of each word instead of trying to sound them out using her knowledge of phonics as she used to do not so long ago.
Having struggled with the “what to pack for lunch” question for many years, I am surprised when one day she says, “Mommy, can you give me dosas or rotis for lunch instead of noodles and sandwiches?” Getting her to eat Indian food is no longer a battle. In fact, we have to ration her trips to the local sweet shop to prevent her from overdosing on jalebis, rasgullas, and the like.
On her birthday, we visit the temple to pray for a long and healthy life and follow it up with dinner at Pizza Hut.
Shreya’s transition has been remarkably smooth. Although observers attribute it to her young age, I think they are only partially correct. My sense is that our matter-of-fact attitude towards the move is another factor that has made her transition easy. We were intentional about making her introduction to India as smooth as possible. We made sure to bring her bed, books, Barbies, and bunny slippers from America.
At the same time, we have let her form her own opinions about her new environment. While she does not care for the stray dogs in the neighborhood, she is genuinely thrilled to see the occasional camel at the intersection. She plays games on the computer and tries her hand at street cricket. She acquires a taste for pineapple pastries and mango pickles. She gives her own twist to her clothing ensembles, which together create an original and unique fusion style.
While a lot has indeed changed, I am thankful for those things that have not. We still say our prayers together before I tuck her in bed at night. But I know that more changes are on the way when she says, “Goodnight, Amma.”
