Everything about American suburbia feels like an antithesis to the living conditions of the majority in India. Its guiding principles, space and safety envelop inhabitants. Wide roads, bland buildings, vivid sunsets. Miles and miles of housing communities blend into each other. The obvious modes of convenience — big-box stores, fast food, smoke shops, Indian restaurants and grocery stores — are sandwiched in between. Frisco, Texas. Purgatory for some. Kind of all I know.
All my grandparents stopped coming to America. Too boring for them. Interestingly, Indians, mostly immigrants, are the fastest-growing population where I live. Also, seemingly the wealthiest. Young families mostly, since the public schools are good. Taxes are low. You can get big houses for “cheap”; you can even settle down in a gated community. And the older I get, the more fascinated I am by people who leave behind all that they know in the hope of finding something “better”. Yet, it’s hard to learn a new culture, hard to make friends, and hard not to miss a past life. Big jump.
I go for a bike ride most evenings near Richwoods, a community close to where I live — and I never fail to see a pack of Indian grandparents under a park awning, trying to pass the time with a drop of familiarity. Groups get bigger over the summers as grandparents shuffle in to spend some time with their grandkids.
Giving into curiosity, I approached a group. I met with them at the park over a couple of days. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you exactly why I did it. I asked if I could take photos for an Indian publication, and they agreed, albeit confused. Maybe it’s because I miss my own grandparents, or India, but I also think it’s an instant way to feel the contrast between Indian and American culture.
There’s a segregation between grandpas and grandmas. One table for each group. I sit with the grandpas and dive in. We speak in Telugu. The conversations aren’t really about what I know best — Indian politics and economy. How they’ve changed, where they’re headed. They talk about old jobs, everyone seems to be retired now. I happily listen, with nothing to contribute. They joke about immigration statuses — apart from a couple of US citizens and one green card holder, the rest are here on visitor visas. I chime in with my own immigration story; I claim that the American passport might be the biggest luxury in the world. Most disagree and can’t wait to get back to India.
I ask how they pass their time and about their sentiments towards America in general. Their days mostly consist of early mornings, long walks, watching the news, playing games on phones, helping around the house, and two park meetings a day. On the odd day, they go somewhere with the family, probably the mall. We all love the fresh air. They enjoy the cleanliness but miss their ability to move around freely. They can find all the ingredients, but the food made with them doesn’t taste the same. Social gatherings in America feel more contrived than in India; there’s a familial element missing. But most of them are just happy to see that their kids are successful. Their grandchildren are getting a good education. All they can really ask for. In the background, I hear bursts of laughter, singing and applause coming from the grandmas. They seem to be having a great time. It’s hard to take photos without disturbing the moment.
As the sun starts to set, people begin their journeys back home. Some get picked up by their kids in cars, others walk, and a couple bike. To be repeated the next day.
