child of immigrants home
words by Bhavyasri Suggula, art by Hannah Nguyen
The past seven months were bound with constant travel, the only flight home was on July 28th, 5:40 PM. My body had become well accustomed to the communal spaces of UVA dorms during the semester and then gradually commuter life in DC during my summer internship. I could no longer recall the familiarity of home, each cherished memory slipping through my grasp ever so quickly. So, I spent my flight home scrolling through endless montages of my last visit, during December of 2023, clinging onto waves of vague memories and aching nostalgia.
I grew increasingly desperate as I swiped back and forth between one photo to another, fighting against the creeping realization that I might be losing touch with the essence of the home I once knew. I could no longer reminisce in the echoes of amma’s గజ్జళు (gajjalu/anklets) that would reverberate around the house, signaling her every movement nor could I retrieve the comfort I felt from laying side by side on my sister’s bed as we talked incessantly about our lives as night turned to day. “What ifs” gnawed at me. What if my room’s layout had been changed? What if there was a new TV I wouldn’t know how to use? What if Amma had reorganized the kitchen? The thought of these reconfigurations and the unfamiliarity they brought filled me with dread and anxiety. An unfamiliar space would treat me as a guest, not as if I am the homeowner.
“Tupperware with amma’s లడ్డూలు (ladoos) and ఖర్జూరాలు (dates) sits nestled amongst the packets of tea biscuits and each step toward amma’s delicacies mirrored the jingling of her గాజులు (gaajjullu/glass bangles) as she molded the sweet.”
Though my mind grew erratic on the ride home from the airport, the anxious thoughts were soon smothered by the scent of amma’s ఆగరబత్తీ (agarbathi/incense sticks) as I entered through the garage. The soft jasmine fragrance drifted from the puja room, past its open red door, throughout the entrance, hung with the beaded garlands from Tirupathi, into the living room and connected kitchen area. It slowly engulfed the ceiling-high shelves at each corner of the living room, each filled with mementos from our travels and figurines of Hindu deities. Then, I cautiously stepped further into the living room, letting the familiar scent guide me to every detail I remembered from my last visit. I noted the coffee table that had witnessed countless family gatherings since we first bought it in 2006 when we initially moved to America.
The table then pointed me towards the elephant-shaped fruit basket from India, which will always remain in the center of the kitchen island, the clutter of newspapers and week-old mail yearning to be opened. Tupperware with amma’s లడ్డూలు (ladoos) and ఖర్జూరాలు (dates) sits nestled amongst the packets of tea biscuits and each step toward amma’s delicacies mirrored the jingling of her గాజులు (gaajjullu/glass bangles) as she molded the sweet. She had never failed to spend the nights leading up to her oldest daughter’s arrival crafting boxes of homemade sweets and snacks, placing them in plain sight on the kitchen island for me to savor as I pleased while she was at work. I also knew her subtle strategy was to persuade me to take a bunch of snacks back to Virginia if I ate them and then mentioned how much I missed her food.
“I worried that each detail I forgot would give them more of a reason to believe our connection was strained.”
Surrounding the island stood shelves adorned with an assortment of tupperware, glassware, branded coffee mugs, steel chai glasses, Indian spices, and amma’s homemade పచ్చడులు (pacchadulu/pickles). In between the shelves stood a small window that looked into a garden (surprisingly thriving in the Arizona heat from a little bit of amma’s love). I recall seeing her run around the perimeter of the backyard with two gardeners as she directed her grand scheme of homes for her new plants, a list of flowers from మల్లెపూలు (mallepuvvulu/jasmine) to vegetables like బెండకాయలు (bendakaayulu/okra) being recited at the two men. I watched as she etched out her new hideaway where she would spend hours after her mundane 9-5, tending to her kids and pouring out her love and care.
Any empty crevice in the kitchen was filled with stacks of newspapers, excess cutlery, the rice cooker with half-eaten rice sitting, pots of my favorite curries, and household gadgets. The mental map I had construed of the first floor, in deciphering what belonged, was exactly as I had imagined it. But, I couldn’t feel any relief from the guilt that kept its hand at my throat each minute I spent away from home. The first winter break I had returned, I was often reprimanded by my family for being unable to remember where things were. Each visit, the anxiety of not being able to identify familiar details weighed heavily on me. I worried that each detail I forgot would give them more of a reason to believe our connection was strained, making them feel as if they were slowly losing touch with me each year I spent away in college. And this summer, I vowed to ensure I remember the small details of where everything was, my memory serving as the rope that tethered me to my family and the home.
“The walls of my room had been infiltrated with a part of who I was, a cacophony of colors and aesthetics comprising my bedroom (a Pinterest girl’s worst nightmare). ”
Breaking free from the chaos, I turn around and walk towards the jasmine scent to head upstairs and run a hot shower, locking eyes with the bright red door that served as the official entrance to my house. Next to the puja room stood the staircase guiding to the second floor. The top of the steps opened to the huge loft where one side was occupied by my dad’s work desk and the other by our old brown sofa from the apartment we lived in since moving to Arizona in 2013. The furniture adorned the entrance to the master bedroom, yet I turned to the left towards my room.
The walls of my room had been infiltrated with a part of who I was, a cacophony of colors and aesthetics comprising my bedroom (a Pinterest girl’s worst nightmare).
The first half of the room served as a vivid reminder of the many personas I had embodied throughout the years whether it be during the pandemic when I convinced myself of my artistic skills, each painting I had finished emulating the declining effort I put into each proceeding piece, or when I believed I should work to compete in the Olympics, only to have been diagnosed with a bone disease that ceased my career in athletics altogether. I could never decide what I was truly interested in or what I was passionate about, dabbling in all the arts, sports, academic competitive clubs, and technical hobbies ever.
Another testament to my indecisiveness on hobbies was my desk. It was always covered in random stacks of notebooks, old music sheets, Rubik's cubes, useless gadgets, paintbrushes, crochet hooks, and random Indian dresses amma had just ironed. Medals and certificates hung from the wall, living proof of the many adventures I took.
“Even though the cycle of departures and arrivals might be bittersweet, the stagnant state of my home would constantly remind me to hold tightly the people I love in the place I love.”
The second half of the room then stood as a chaotic mosaic of my past, a curated collection of trinkets and memories. The fairy lights carried the many Polaroids of my friends, each picture capturing an image of every person who shaped and supported me throughout high school. Yet, amidst the newfound maturity, the posters of my favorite boybands clung to the walls, and the colorful faces resembled a nostalgic reminder of a childlike joy that refuses to fade. Underneath these emblems was the mattress I call my bed covered in stuffed animals from Humphrey, the four-foot whale I crocheted over three days the summer of 2022, to the tiny Ikea panda I received after pestering my mother for an hour to buy it for me. The end of the bed faces a bookshelf filled with old prep books, Jane Austen novels, and cheesy romance pieces, a sign that the bookworm in me never disappeared. Unlike a pristine Pinterest-worthy space, my room is a deliberately haphazard tapestry of my incomplete interests and experiences. The organized chaos stands as a sanctuary where each wall lets me embrace my authentic self without the pressure to conform to an idealized image.
Even though the cycle of departures and arrivals might be bittersweet, the stagnant state of my home would constantly remind me to hold tightly the people I love in the place I love. My parents will always hang my art pieces whether they be silly ideas I saved from Tiktok or mindless brushstrokes. Each time I left, my mom would place my supplies and canvasses halfway done in the corner of my room, her belief in the stories I wanted to tell through my finished creations. It was her trust in me despite the doubts I held about my interests and experiences. Her hope to see me return to this hobby was her way of preserving who I was when I was home, rebuilding confidence in myself.
“As long as my family would inhabit the house, they would always ensure I could return home. ”
The boxes of painting supplies kept stored in my room translated into the jars of pickles she kept labeled in the kitchen cabinet, her reminders that my desire for her homecooked food would never change. I could always return and reach for my favorite dishes, without hesitation or anxiety of their whereabouts. And, it is in these simple placements, that I can tell myself that leaving does not mean losing touch with my home. I didn’t need to worry about creating a mental map of what belonged in each room nor scroll through pictures to feel the things I had grown distant from. As long as my family would inhabit the house, they would always ensure I could return home.
I could still lay with my sister on her bed amongst her pile of stuffed animals as we ranted about our favorite shows.
I could always pass by నాన్న (nānna/dad) in the loft as he took his daily work meetings at his work desk.
I could always join amma in the living room as she crafted new sweets and snacks while watching the latest telugu movies.
