Between Two Worlds

The fan above me spun slowly, barely moving the hot air. I was lying wide awake at my grandmother’s house in Southern India, scared out of my mind. I held my cousin’s electric mosquito zapper right next to my face, just in case a bug or lizard decided to fall on me in the middle of the night. I was in third grade, sweating through my shirt, and wondering how anyone could sleep like this. Every morning, I’d wake up shocked that I made it through the night. I couldn’t believe people lived like that—no air conditioning, bugs everywhere, and sometimes no power at all. Back home in America, I had bug screens, clean tap water, and a quiet room with cool air. I never had to worry about lizards on the walls or using a bucket and cup to shower. India felt so different—loud, hot, and, honestly, kind of overwhelming. And yet, it was where my family came from. It was where I was supposed to feel like I belonged.

But the truth is, I didn’t.

When we visited India during the summers, I expected to feel welcomed. I thought I’d feel at home. But I didn’t. My cousins would laugh at my American accent. They’d tease me when I messed up words in our language or didn’t know how to eat something properly. Once, I called a sweet dish by the wrong name, and my cousin laughed so hard he dropped his plate. I felt embarrassed and out of place—like I was an outsider in a place that was supposed to be mine.

At the same time, growing up in America didn’t always feel easy either. I went to a mostly white school, where I was one of the few kids who looked like me. People asked me weird questions like, “Why do you wear that dot thing on your forehead?” or “You don’t eat beef? Really?” I remember one Thanksgiving, everyone was talking about their turkey dinners while I was still thinking about the Diwali sweets we had just made at home—ladoo, murukku, and my favorite, gulab jamun.

Indian festivals at home were loud, colorful, and full of food and laughter. We’d light candles and wear traditional clothes, the smell of incense and spices filling the house. I loved it, but it also reminded me of how different my life at home was from my life at school. Sometimes, it felt like I had to live as two different people—American at school, Indian at home.

But as I’ve grown older, I’ve started to see things differently. I’ve learned that living between two cultures can actually be a good thing. I can eat dosa for breakfast and pizza for dinner. I can go from watching an NBA game to helping my mom prepare for a puja. I’ve learned to switch between languages, customs, and traditions without even thinking. It’s not always easy, and sometimes it’s still confusing—but I’ve realized that both sides are part of who I am.

That summer at my grandma’s house taught me a lot. I didn’t love the bugs, or the heat, or being teased for sounding different. But I also got to see where my parents grew up, where my family came from, and why our traditions matter. I learned that being both Indian and American doesn’t mean I’m split in half. It means I get the best of both worlds.

Even if I still have to watch out for lizards.