A Migratory Mind

I never thought I'd go back to India. Honestly. My life in the States was pretty much perfect: Mac n' cheese, elementary school, racist friends. Okay, so not THAT perfect. But I was happy.
My dad came to pick me up from school one day, with a jubilant smile on his face.
"We're going back home!"
By home, I thought he meant our house. I remember wondering why he looked so drunk on life when he said that.
I later asked my mother why he was so happy. She harrumphed and said we were moving back to Cow Central.
***
Four months later as I rushed to grab the window seat, I realized I might not see California for a very long time. I knew I would miss everything right from our posh society to the wonderful chocolates, but I was looking forward to living where I belonged.

My first drive out in Delhi was very shocking. There was garbage and traffic everywhere, and beggars at every road signal giving me looks that made my heart break. The cab driver was constantly on the phone, shouting at someone in rapid Hindi, and only stopped to scream abuse at a random cyclist trying to overtake him.
But at one point I stopped noticing such things. Why? Delhi itself: its people, its buildings, its greenery, everything about it, fascinated me. We passed the India Gate, and I stared at in awe, and laughed at foreigners trying in vain to avoid a persistent hawker. We passed a road full of small shops crammed with people bargaining and the colors of India: red bangles, blue cloths, green hangings; so many multicolored objects that all caught my fancy. We passed people happily urinating in a corner while talking on the phone, and elderly ladies sitting around a table with chai (tea), gossiping away to glory.

I thought coming back to India would be taking a step down from the sophistication of the States: instead, it felt like coming back to being where I belonged, in the beautiful and colorful cultural paradise that is India.