“Many many happy returns!”

Thatha’s toothy smile lit up my mom’s phone screen. He only had whispers of white hair left on his head, but you could still see the joy in his dark brown eyes and because he almost never stopped smiling. It didn’t matter where he was or what he was going through- whether in the midst of heated bargaining at the jewelry store or getting ready to eat one of his favorite meals (dosa and chicken curry). Ammamma sat next to him with a blank face and her gray hair tied back in a ponytail while trying to hold her hand up to wave to me. But after two major back and arm surgeries in the past five years, her hand trembled with each inch she raised it. Before the surgeries, she had no problem driving a motorcycle anywhere across India in collision-heavy traffic or doing anything labeled “dangerous” for a woman in her 70s. But now, by the time she got her hand up, her fingers were so separated from one another it looked more like a Vulcan salute from Star Trek than a normal hello. Before, she’d be able to slowly explain new policies in India to me as I understood bits and pieces of the daily news we watch together. Now, not so much. She quickly muttered out something in Telugu- her only talking pace and tone now- to the point where even my parents, native Telugu speakers couldn’t get it. The video call between two of my grandparents, my mother, my father, and me- four of the people I love most in the world- fills me with dread every time it’s about to start, makes me deeply uncomfortable during it, and leaves me with a lot on my mind after it.

In-person visits aren’t much better.

I’d go years without seeing my grandparents and they were different people each time and now, would rather spend their time with me sitting in chairs, conversing with me, instead of helping me construct play-doh monstrosities like they did when I was younger.

My seventeenth birthday was different from almost all of my classmates, just like what happened in the sixteen that came before it. Like a lot of other kids, I met up with some friends, went out to dinner with my family, and had a way-too-big slice of birthday cake with a sharp vanilla taste and a pungently sweet pink rose crafted from frosting. But everything changes at 10:30pm: the calls from India. Relatives from generations back on the family tree, third cousins that are a few branches away on that tree, and some people I’m pretty sure I’m not even related to started calling through my parents’ phones. My cousin from Texas kept asking me for “hot takes'' for the NFL, so I foolishly predicted the Dolphins would win the Super Bowl because I barely keep track of football. My pedananna (uncle) was surprisingly interested in what I ate for breakfast that day. My cousin from Virginia (one of the relatives who I have no idea how we’re related to) got me into a ten-minute conversation about Crumbl Cookies.

A ringtone filled the room. The American side of me thought of two trash can lids being pounded against each other; but my Indian side was reminded of the loud, blaring trumpets at Hindu festivals filled with colorful white-petal garlands and thousands of people sitting with their legs crossed for a puja (prayer). As soon as I saw the spring green WhatsApp logo, I knew it was worth just pleading for partial credit on my physics homework. I had to go through the calls.  Every single one of them.

The first came from my maternal grandparents: Ammamma and Thatha. Thatha, my grandfather, could talk for hours if he wanted to and be the happiest man in the world. As soon as I mentioned “tennis” he’d talk to me about all the Open Championships, world rankings, and every stadium that he’s been to. But beyond the nuance he’d go to about a neon ball going back and forth on a rectangular court, all of our conversations lacked meaningful depth. The limited Telugu I knew and the limited English he knew led to limited conversations. He was born into a world where his country had just gained independence and a fierce national identity made sure that he’d rather be nowhere than in Hyderabad. While he supported my mother’s move to America when she was just 22, he’d never even considered doing the same and part of him never wanted her to leave. I came from a much different world. Sixteen years in Jupiter, Florida of beach days, exploring ice cream shops, and living in a very caucasian neighborhood and weeks at a time, at most, Hyderabad, India pushed down learning Telugu on my list of priorities. It wasn’t until third grade that I memorized all the vowels and most of the phrases I know today from Bollywood action movies with more cheesy special effects than dialogue that I have to watch with my eyes glued to English subtitles. I can replay all the songs in my head, but still can’t understand what 95 percent of the words mean. So when Thatha blessed me with happy wishes and returns for my upcoming year, we both smiled, staring at each other with phones as our looking glass. I could tell that a million things were going through his head: working as an engineer for decades gives you a pretty sharp mind. I just wasn’t sure if I’d be able to understand a single one of those thoughts. So as soon as he started to speak again, I just stayed smiling, barely comprehending a quarter of the words he was saying. I did what I always do in this situation: I gave my mom the signal, a quick side-eye and a little bit of an eyebrow raise and she took the phone out of my hand and took over the conversation. A couple months ago when we were planning a summer trip to India and my parents told me that they’d be traveling in India from city to city and that I’d be on my own for a few days, I asked them, “How am I supposed to survive?” I meant as a joke, but it wasn’t. I’d never been outside of the country for a day without them, so even though my passport said “Overseas Citizen”, I was really just a glorified tourist with heritage.

When my mom handed the phone back to me, Ammamma was on the phone. Her nurse was holding the phone close to her face where the 2.5-by-5.5-inch phone frame was filled with just her head. Once again, she said something in Telugu that I wasn’t even close to getting. This time my mom was on my side and quickly translated the message to me. It was, “Happy Birthday!” 

When I see Grandpa Tom and Grandma Ruth in movies and television shows, it’s backyard barbecues and big ol’ kisses on the forehead. But my grandparents and I never had any of the silver screen moments that jump to my mind when I think of “family”. Even when I’m in India, it can feel like I’m just as far away from them as if I was across the Atlantic in Florida. But without a doubt, we still loved each other. A rite of passage for Hindu boys in South India is the dhoti ceremony (the closest thing we have to a bar mitzvah). My brother did this when he was twelve and most boys do it right before they hit puberty, but with delayed travels and a world health pandemic, I haven’t been to India since I was ten. So six years later, in the busiest summer of my life so far right before senior year, awaiting AP Exam scores and starting the dreadful process of college applications, I decided to go to India and do my dhoti ceremony. And even though I was pretty much a foreigner over there, I was excited to go spending the week before in Kentucky and the next two weeks in Iowa, making literally anywhere seem better. After just days of “spicy” cooking that had less of a punch than vanilla ice cream and desert heat that was so dry it put me out of my comfort zone even though I lived through Florida heat for over a decade, I felt like I had enough. But beyond the motivation to get out of redneck territory, I found out that I was only eligible to do this ceremony once every two years- if I didn’t do it then, I’d have to wait until I was eighteen after my freshman year of college. That’s an age usually considered way too old to do the dhoti ceremony. But the more pressing concern was that was on my mind was that by then, Ammamma didn’t know if she’d be well enough to see me go through with it. That pang of guilt for putting it off for so long felt too real to be caused by anything other than love.

I spent the rest of my first day as a dancing queen laying on my bed until 1 am, waiting for more calls to come in. All my cousins that range from fifteen years older than me to fifteen years younger talked to me about everything from cricket to Skyline Chili, an iconic place to eat when I’m with the Cincinnati relatives (although the food is honestly not great with an overpowering taste of blandness).  My uncles and aunts asked me the exact questions of what I did so many times from the time I woke up to what my classes were to what I did in the minutes leading up to the call that my response became as concise as possible. It started with a lengthy explanation of every detail that happened which shortened to, “I had lunch with some friends and dinner with amma and nanna (mom and dad).” 

As the calls shortened from generations back to people from my generation, the cultural divide diminished just as much as the age divide. But I was still left feeling cultureless. The attachment I had went beyond words and spoken language but it felt empty without that component. I asked my mom, “Can I start learning Telugu again?” For Thatha and his tennis talks, Ammamma and her limited speech, and everyone on (and off) the family tree to have more of me than a couple of phrases next year when I embark into adulthood. Outside of the language, I started making a commitment to embrace more of my cultural roots before I leave for college. The summer after senior year, my mom and I have been planning for our entire family to go to Tirupati, an important site of Hindu pilgrimage. And you already know I’m going to spend way too much time learning Bollywood dances when the senioritis hits second semester after all these college applications are out the way. 

My eighteenth birthday won’t be just as normal as everyone else’s, but maybe it’ll be just as different.