Back when my parents were in Dallas, newly married and just
beginning their life together in a new country (for my mom) and a brand-new
city (for both), my dad happened to take a marketing course with an Indian
professor. Because they were Indian, and secondarily because they were new to
the city, the professor took on a mentor role and invited my parents frequently
to his home. He and his wife brought my parents in contact with other Indians
in the university and created a community of brown solidarity.
My parents hadn’t been in contact with this professor in
years. But last November, my dad emailed him after coming across an article that
was written by a woman with the same last name who made several references to
her father that seemed to match to the professor. A few hours later, my father
got a reply that she was indeed his daughter.
I was home for this revelation and suddenly, I started encountering
more of her articles upon returning to New York, all of which focused on Indian
experiences and voices. On whim, I decided to email her. (Considering she is a
writer, I felt considerable pressure to make my email perfect. The two-paragraph
note took me an hour to write.)
I had done some digging around and realized that she is
based here in New York. So I decided that if I was going to send a random email,
I may as well try to see if we could meet too. This was the most forward I have
ever been.
To my surprise, she responded. And to my bigger surprise,
she said she was willing to meet. And two weeks ago, we met for what was the first
time I have felt genuinely connected to anyone since coming to New York.
Next time I complain about having to live in New York, this
meeting will be a reminder why living here for the next two years may be worth
it after all.
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