Heritage: Connecting to My Roots
In my American life, I “know” my Indian culture; during my India visits, I get to “live” it. In the process, I have come to love the effortless connection between people and their warmth and authenticity.
[Left] The author with her brother and parents at the Golden Temple.
As an Indian American, I’ve always wanted to feel deeply connected to my culture. My parents have done an incredible job of weaving Indian traditions into my upbringing—taking me to the temple, introducing me to extended family when they visit from India, and celebrating vibrant festivals like Diwali and Janmashtami. These experiences have shaped my understanding of my heritage, but they never quite made me feel Indian. There was always a gap between knowing my culture and living it.
Hanging loose with cousins at the Haldi ceremony.
That changed when, in 2023, at age 15, I traveled to India for my cousin’s wedding. It had been seven years since my last visit, and honestly, I had no idea what to expect. My childhood memories were a blur of crowded streets filled with food vendors, stray dogs, and the chaotic symphony of honking cars and bustling people.
After what felt like an endless trek through Mumbai Airport (the carpets somehow made it feel even longer), we finally stepped outside. The moment the thick, humid air hit me, something shifted. The overwhelming energy of people moving about in every direction was disorienting—and yet exhilarating. An invisible thread connected everyone, a shared pulse that felt foreign and yet familiar.
[Top] “Laughter and devotion with my cousins.” At a Maata ki Chowki event in India.
I knew how to speak Hindi, but not fluently. In America, my Hindi was limited to conversations with my parents, the occasional chat with visiting relatives, and binge-watching Bollywood movies. But in India, it became my lifeline as I had to ask for directions, haggle with street vendors, and chat with relatives who spoke only Hindi. At first, I stumbled, self-conscious about my American accent. But to my surprise, no one cared. The vendors, neighbors, even rickshaw drivers welcomed my efforts with warmth, laughing kindly when I made mistakes and nodding proudly when I got it right. Instead of feeling like an outsider, I felt seen.
[Left] Sharing late-night laughter with cousins at 4 a.m., after a night full of wedding celebration.
What struck me the most was how effortlessly people connected with one another. In America, life feels compartmentalized—polite smiles are exchanged with strangers, but little more. In India, it was the opposite. It was chaotic, yes, but also alive with warmth and authenticity. In public, strangers struck up conversations in grocery store lines. At our relatives’ home, aunties treated me like their own child, and uncles eagerly asked about my future.
[Right] “Tired feet, full hearts.” Walking with her family to the Maata Ashram at 3 a.m.
That feeling of familial affection deepened at the wedding. Meeting my cousins and relatives who claimed to remember me (though I’d never seen them before) and even discovering people younger than me who were technically my aunts and uncles, was all surreal. My dad’s family is vast, and I learned about their lives through countless conversations. Many had studied abroad, weaving their own stories between cultures just like me.
The wedding itself was pure magic. The music, the colors, the energy—it was nothing like the quiet, contained ceremonies I’d seen in the U.S. My two first cousins, who are like sisters to me, and I were especially excited about performing at the reception. We’d been practicing for weeks, and the joy of dancing together in front of our family was unmatched. Each event overflowed with laughter, dancing, and an endless spread of delectable food.
But beyond the grandeur, what stayed with me was the togetherness. My cousin’s friends helped with decorations, relatives handled last-minute outfit emergencies, and it felt like every guest was part of the celebration, not just an attendee.
[Left] After a six-hour walk for Maata darshan, with her mother and brother by her side.
And then there were the streets—India’s heartbeat. They were bustling, unpredictable, and full of stories waiting to be told. As I walked through them, I imagined the lives of people I passed—the vendor flipping jalebis in sizzling oil, the child playing barefoot, the old men debating passionately over chai. Their resilience was palpable. I thought about the sacrifices many must have made—the families who built homes out of whatever they could find, the kids who worked from a young age to support younger siblings. This was the India I had never truly known—not the one from movies or family stories, but the raw, beautiful, complicated reality.
By the end of my trip, I no longer felt like an outsider trying to grasp at my heritage. I had finally lived it. India showed me that culture isn’t just in festivals or temple visits; it’s in how people talk, laugh, hustle, and embrace life with open arms.
Vrindavan to Vaishno Devi—A pilgrim’s delight
My journey into India continued in December 2024, when, after much convincing, my family and I returned—not for a wedding, but to explore our spiritual roots. We traveled to Vrindavan, Amritsar, and Jammu to visit the Vaishno Devi temple. While I’ve always felt spiritually connected to my faith, thanks in large part to my dad’s teachings, this trip awakened something deeper.
[Right] Saying goodbye to Jammu as the family heads back to Delhi, “grateful for every moment shared.”
In Vrindavan, the energy at the ISKCON Temple was electric. The rush at Banke Bihari Temple, where people crowded eagerly for just a glimpse of Lord Krishna, left me in awe. At the Golden Temple in Amritsar, we waited over an hour for darshan, and yet those few sacred moments, sitting and listening to the kirtan, enhanced me. But the most transformative experience was our trek to Vaishno Devi. The five-hour walk was grueling—steep paths, aching legs, and the cold biting at us—but reaching the temple was worth every step. Though the darshan lasted only a minute, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace, as if I could feel Mata’s presence surrounding me.
[Top] Making memories with her extended family.
These spiritual moments grounded me in a way I never expected. They weren’t just rituals or traditions passed down—they were experiences that connected me to something greater than myself. Returning to America after that trip, I carried more than just memories. I carried a deeper understanding of who I am.
My identity isn’t split between two cultures; it’s enriched by both. I’m Indian. I’m American. And in that intersection, I’ve found something beautiful—me.
Hritvi Ahuja, a high school senior, is a writer and editor at The Messenger, her school’s online newspaper.
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