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Share an essay on any topic of your choice. It can be one you've already written, one that responds to a different prompt, or one of your own design.
Visiting Mumbai always feels like coming home. It is the place of my grandparents and their tiny apartment that is somehow still standing after decades of needing to be rebuilt. It is the place of the decaying wooden stall where my grandfather bought strawberry milk. India is the place of food-hot food made on the streets in large steaming pans.
India is also the place of my grandmother's kitchen. My aaji is the embodiment of the stereotypical Indian grandmother-the one who pinches your cheeks, spends hours cooking, and when you say "That's enough, I'm full," she hears "I'll have five more." My mother, my grandmother, and her mother were all raised in the kitchen where they were taught to roll out perfectly round rotis and make perfect cups of chai. But beyond obligation and maternal duties, there is a sense of pride that they feel when cooking for their loved ones and have them all pile around a dining table. This is my family: a combination of traditional Indian gender roles and a longstanding tradition of cooking for and feeding others.
But I am not my mother; I was not taught to make round rotis or to memorize all the different spices that are used in cooking. I was not raised in my grandmother's kitchen. I was raised in the United States, and I rarely spent time cooking in my kitchen.
At six years old, I fell in love Disney Channel and I immediately noticed the differences between the white families in their kitchens and my family. On TV, parents seemed so open with their kids. Hugging and kissing each other was a part of their daily routines. I saw this in my friends' households as well. Phone conversations with their parents always ended with "Bye, I love you." Those words were so familiar to me, yet so foreign, as I'd never heard my parents say them.
In comparison, my parents seemed cold and distant, and though I wasn't used to it, I longed to hear "I love you."
For my sophomore year English final, I gave a speech comparing the collectivist mindset of Indian culture with the individualistic one of Americans. And as I was praising the importance that Indians place on close family connections to my class, I couldn't help questioning these values. How are people in an individualistic society able to express their feelings to each other so much more openly than my family? How is it that a culture that claims to value family can't even say "I love you" to each other?
One night during junior year, when I was feeling particularly lonely, the years of bottled up hurt and anger and confusion finally erupted in the middle of dinner. I screamed at my mother between frustrated tears.
"Why don't you ever say I love you?!" As usual, she said nothing back; she didn't try to hug me, or comfort me, or apologize.
Food is such an important part of Indian culture. It's the time and effort spent in the kitchen, crushing up cardamom and cloves. It's an excuse to get everyone together to enjoy something. Food is a love language-one that I wasn't fluent in and therefore could never receive.
I was not raised in my grandmother's kitchen, but I forget that my mother was. So when I came home from school the next day, greeted with not a hug or a kiss, but a cup of chai with biscuits, I heard it: I love you.
Through all of the confusion of growing up with more than a single culture, I have grown to understand my family. Not only that, but it's them and their culture that has made me who I am today. Someone who understands the importance of building relationships and caring for the people around you.