We, the first-generation migrants, always feel that a part of our soul is missing.
Its absence eludes us initially amidst the hustle of establishing a livelihood in the foreign land we've adopted as home, where we immerse ourselves in adapting to new ways of life. But this emptiness gradually becomes visible when we have achieved whatever we wanted to achieve, built a life for ourselves, and looked around only to find we are alone.
I started realizing this in my late forties, a period when my parents were still alive and still back in India.
The pain of leaving my parent’s home and the country of my birth became more intense with each visit, as I realized, my parents were getting older and older and the limited time I was spending with them wasn’t enough. It dawned on me that, I needed to start documenting the narrative of their lives for the sake of my children and their children.
I want my children to know where their mother grew up and who her parents were and where they came from. I want them to learn what they went through in their lives. And if the life was any harder or easier for them?