Here are two excerpts from a book I recently read, "One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter," by Scaachi Koul:
My friends had white names—Jennifer, Kayla, Kellie, Molly, Kirsten—names
my parents made fun of because what do those names even mean? A loaded
question, considering the name they gave me barely makes sense to other
brown people. When we were in India in the early aughts, Chacha told me
that Kayla, or kela, means “banana” in Hindi, and when I took that
information back to my friend, we laughed for a solid school year. I had
a funny name, and teachers and the parents of other kids always asked:
“Where are you from?” I learned fast that the correct answer wasn’t “I
take the E bus and I’m the second to last stop and that’s where I live,”
but rather “My parents are Indian immigrants.” With that answer, their
faces would light up and they’d say, “Oh, I hear India is amazing! Does
your mom make curry?” Then I would shrug and say, yeah, sure, I guess
she does, but isn’t that like me asking if your mom boils water?
When
I visit home, then, I live out of a suitcase, and, since the house
hardly looks the same, I listen for sounds that remind me that this is
home. Mom closes the glass door of her shower: that is morning. Papa
flicks on the radio: that is early afternoon. His armchair creaks and
snaps to bring up the leg rest: that’s late afternoon. A pressure cooker
screams in the kitchen: it’s almost dinnertime. The curtains are closed
in the living room and it sounds like soft strips of fabric are being
gently torn: my parents are going to bed. My apartment doesn’t have
these same sounds; instead, my sounds are a cat pawing through her food
bowl, the front door being locked, the swish of sheets being readjusted.
These sounds don’t feel the same. They don’t feel as comforting,
because they are mine, are my responsibility, while the ones at home are
my parents’—the promise that everything is fine, consistent, safe at
home.
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