My name is Ishani, and I live in Georgia, USA, with my husband Parth and our two children, Dev (8) and Rina (6). Like many Indian immigrants, we chased the American dream - careers in IT, financial stability, and the joy of supporting our parents back home. Georgia became our home, surrounded by a vibrant Indian community and a rich blend of cultures - Mexican, Korean, Jamaican. But something was missing.
Despite over a decade of marriage, we hadn't taken our children to India. They'd never walked the lanes of Kolkata, yet they speak Bengali fluently. Their American-accented English sometimes draws puzzled looks in India, even judgment. But their grasp of Bengali? That's my quiet triumph.
We chose simple names, Dev and Rina, so they'd be easy for foreigners to pronounce. I took on the Chatterjee surname after marriage, thankfully one that doesn't get butchered often. But names are just the surface. What mattered more was the legacy I wanted my children to inherit, not just language, but the soul of where I came from.
I grew up in a colony unlike any other. No gates, no guards, no walls - just a boundless sense of belonging. Our home, the largest in the colony, was built by my grandfather before independence. We were the only family with a car, but my parents and grandparents never let that create distance. The colony was a mosaic, some homes were thatched huts, others multi-story buildings. Some brightly lit, others dim. But love and acceptance flowed freely, eclipsing any material divide.
At the heart of it all was our pond - a serene, sacred space. My grandfather ensured it was spotless, a reflection of his reverence for nature. It was here, under my dad's guidance, that I learned to swim. The pond wasn't just water, it was memory, discipline, and joy. My Dadu's care extended to every tree, every flower. Mango, banana, and Seuli blossoms thrived under his watchful eye, and the colony respected his quiet devotion to preserving greenery.
Durga Puja was our crown jewel. Held on our family grounds, Bhog was served to everyone, twice daily for four days. My grandfather insisted that every performance feature colony members - no outside celebrities. He was respected not for wealth, but for his quiet generosity. People would rise when he passed, not out of fear, but reverence.
I was the colony's pampered troublemaker. I climbed trees, leapt from rooftops, played cricket, football, and every game the boys played and turned every day into a festival. The aunties adored me, even when I led the neighbourhood kids into wild adventures. If my mother tried to scold me, they rushed to my defence. My leadership skills? Honed at age three, commanding my gang of mischief-makers.
Academically, I thrived at La Martiniere for Girls. When I scored 95% in my 10th-grade exams, the colony erupted in celebration. Even those who hadn't passed joined in, it was never about marks, but about pride and unity.
Independence came with higher secondary school. My parents decided I should travel by bus, no more chauffeured rides. That's when I noticed him. A handsome boy who smiled just enough to make my heart race. We exchanged letters, and I confessed to my mother. Her reaction? A dramatic third-floor lecture. I ended the romance the next day.
Parth and I met through work. He was the Project Head, an IIT Kharagpur graduate with quiet charm and effortless grace. His kindness won me over, and after three years of courtship, we married, with full family support.
And then came the moment. After years of longing, we decided, it was time to go home. Not just for a visit, but to let our children walk the soil that shaped me.
Returning to my childhood home with Dev and Rina was like stepping into a time capsule. They traced every corner of the house, asking where I used to sleep, study, and play. They were amazed by the modern comforts - gadgets, appliances, everything almost matching their life in the U.S. But what truly stunned them were Ramu and Shontu Kaka, our loyal helpers who had been with us for over 40 years. Their casual familiarity with me left the kids speechless. These weren't staff, they were family.
Dinner was another revelation. Lavish spreads, helpers serving with gloved hands, and just before eating, Dev and Rina folded their hands and whispered a prayer - "Thank you, God, for this food." My ma and baba beamed with pride for having maintained the tradition. The kids had dominated dinner conversation, but now, with their mouths full and hearts content, Parth, who had barely spoken until then, finally found his moment.
The next day, we toured the colony with gifts. Before Leaving US, I had asked Ma for list of residents. True to her style she had sorted residents into "Very Close," "Not So Close," and "No Need" - her subtle way of managing expectations. But to me, everyone was "Very Close." Parth agreed we shouldn't differentiate. We packed five boxes of gifts, paid extra for luggage, and set off with no regrets.
With Ramu and Shontu Kaka helping carry the boxes, we walked through the colony, knowing full well the excitement we would stir. My kids strode ahead, turning back to read my gestures, waiting for their cue. I had one simple rule: when I signalled, they were to shout the name and add "Dida" as a suffix. Parth raised an amused eyebrow. I laughed. "This isn't the U.S.; this is my den."
Our first stop was Philu Mashi's house, the woman who cared for me like her own. The kids called out hesitantly, then louder. Mashi, Mesho, and Shibu, my childhood partner-in-crime, rushed out, eyes wide with disbelief. They paused before hugging the kids, waiting for my nod. I smiled. "Please, go ahead." Tears flowed freely.
Inside, Parth and the kids sat on the floor without hesitation. Mashi protested, "Jamai must sit properly!" But comfort had already won. Shibu's wife fetched sweets and Shingara from Nimai sweet shop, and an impromptu feast began. Stories of my fearless childhood flew fast, and the kids laughed, following the expressions more than the words.
Outside, the colony buzzed. Residents gathered, welcoming us like royalty. Parth leaned in and whispered, "Thank God we didn't differentiate the gifts." I smiled, he was absolutely right.
At every house, identical brown plastic chairs awaited us. I later discovered Ashok Dada, the colony's decorator, had placed them everywhere so we'd have proper seating. Where else does such love exist?
We visited Colony Dida's house for lunch, honouring a tradition close to my heart. Every Laxmi Puja, my grandfather would visit her for prasad and blessings. Though both were no longer with us, I wanted my children to feel that reverence. The dining setup was elegant, but I insisted we were just family. Parth surprised me, he invited Mashi and Mesho to eat first and personally served them. Their silent tears said it all.
That evening, the colony proposed a cricket match - Putul Eleven vs. Parth Eleven. My daak naam, Putul, echoed through the lanes. Parth played with flair, and his team won. The colony erupted: "Jamai jiteche!" Putul was forgotten. I smiled, my choice of life partner. Impeccable.
The next morning, I climbed a mango tree, just like old times. I told the kids to call the Meshos. Soon, the colony gathered below, bedcovers in hand. "O Ma go! She's up to her mischief again!" they cried. My kids screamed, "Mama, stop climbing higher!" I reassured them, "Relax." Reaching the top, I looked down to see Mashis and Meshos clutching their lungis and bedsheets, ready to catch me.
"Wait, Putul! Let us tighten our lungis first!" came the hurried meshos response.
Mashis scolded them. "Forget your lungis, just hold the bedsheets properly!"
Nearly the entire colony had assembled. One Mashima screamed, "Put something soft on the ground!" I declared, "I'm jumping!" And so, I leapt.
The air was filled with screams - from my kids, the elders, everyone. But, as always, I landed safely, expertly caught by my eager rescuers. The thrill of the jump was electrifying. I was ready to do it all over again.
Dev and Rina ran up and hugged me tightly. "Mummy, you're fearless!" they exclaimed. Parth stood frozen, hands on his cheeks. Ma and Baba? Statues of stunned silence.
As the sun rose on the eighth day, our bags were packed and hearts quietly heavy, we were headed to my in-laws' place in Ballygunge. The children clung to Dadu and Dida, pleading with innocent urgency for them to come along to the U.S. Parth, too, wore the weight of farewell on his face, the kind that only follows days steeped in laughter, stories, and connection.
For me, it was a bittersweet moment. I was leaving behind the soil that had nurtured me, yet I felt a quiet sense of fulfilment. My children had touched the pulse of my past, walked the lanes I once ran through, sat with the people who had shaped my values, and felt the warmth of a home where love asks for nothing in return.
Outside, the air was thick with emotion. I held myself together as best I could - hugging, touching feet, whispering reassurances to Ma and Baba, who were visibly shaken. After a decade, they had finally embraced their grandchildren, only to let go again. Goodbyes are never easy, but in old age, they carry a deeper ache, a silence that lingers long after the door closes.
Still, there was comfort in knowing Ma and Baba remained active, surrounded by the unwavering support of our colony, the ever-dependable kakas and neighbours who would continue to look out for them.
There's a stark contrast between spaces built on curated civility and those steeped in raw, unfiltered affection. In a world that often feels transactional, returning to one's roots is a soul-deep reset. It's where masks fall away, where love flows without conditions, and where you're not measured, you're simply embraced.
Leaving Ma's home today, I carry a renewed spirit. But more than that, I carry hope, that my children have seen a world where humanity rises above caste, colour, and creed. A world where belonging isn't earned but instinctively felt.
Thank you, Dadu, Dida, Ma, and Baba - for the stories, the values, and the quiet strength. You've not only shaped me, but now, you've begun shaping the next generation. And that, to me, is the true legacy.
