The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection. - Michelangelo Badi Nani: 1930, seventeen years before Indian independence from the British. Badi Nani was born into a family of landowners in Muzaffarnagar, Uttar Pradesh, India. Badi Nani grew up in constant fear of soldiers raiding her home, a 350 square foot apartment nestled in between a cobbler’s shop and a newspaper stand. British soldiers would line the streets, glaring down at anyone who would dare to make eye contact with them. Her neighbors would hurriedly tell each other when the next raid was going to be. Badi Nani, her pigtails tied tightly in her high school’s green and white ribbons, would run as fast as she could to be back at home, in the comfort of her own journal. She would write the religious Navkar Mantra to feel at ease. Her Parker fountain pen would be gripped so hard in fear that drops of blood from her hand would stain her journal. *** February 14, 2006, my birthday. As soon as I am born, Papa skips giving me to Maa, and instead hands me to Badi Nani who gives me my name अ तशय–Atishay, one who possesses miraculous powers. Newborns have a limited capacity for memory due to the immaturity of their brain structures. They primarily rely on sensory and perceptual experiences to form simple memories. For example, they can recognize their family’s scent or voice, indicating some form of memory of these stimuli. Legend has it that whenever I would cry, Maa or Papa would hand me over to Badi Nani and I would stop crying immediately when I slept on her lap.
*** August 14, 2009, my third and a half birthday. I started going to nursery school. Toddlers start forming what are known as implicit memories, which are memories that are not consciously recalled. These include procedural memories like the exact position to lay on Badi Nani’s lap and emotional memories like the joy I had when she sang to me Chanda Hai Tu––”you are my moon.” It turns out that the hippocampus is still maturing at this age. Connections between neurons are being strengthened. Hence, children are always hyper, wanting to go everywhere, explore everything, and talk to everyone. January 10, 2021, Badi Nani’s 91st birthday. I am in tenth grade. Badi Nani is now on bed-rest, only getting up from time to time to use the bathroom or take a short walk. It turns out that children at this age start to have better episodic memory–– the ability to remember specific events, times, and places, like the gray walls in her one-bedroom duplex. Like the table of diaries full of Navkar Mantra. Like the box of Cadbury chocolates she gives to each of her grandkids and great-grandkids when they visit. Memory continues to mature through adolescence and into adulthood. August, 2023, Badi Nani has gotten weaker. She has more trouble hearing, seeing, and talking. I lay in Badi Nani’s lap once again, while she sings me Chanda Hai Tu. I am constantly in a frenzy to record everything––conversations with her, Mohammad Rafi songs, her favorite bhajans, and Maa’s utmost drama during her pregnancy with me. It turns out that at the same time my brain’s prefrontal cortex continues to grow and grow, Badi Nani’s neurotransmitters decrease the transmission of chemicals like acetylcholine, limiting memory function. Badi Nani would tell me, “Beta, as I grow older, I am going to start forgetting things.” It’s the harsh reality. Yet, no matter what, she always remembers, she is the one who gave me my name.
*** I now stand here and yearn for the days when time seemed to stretch endlessly before me. When the notion of "grown-up" responsibilities felt like a distant horizon. The ticking clock becomes a relentless reminder that every moment carries weight, that each decision shapes not only my present but also the course of my future. I feel this sort of urgency to make the most of every fleeting second, to seize opportunities for growth and self-discovery before they slip through my fingers like grains of sand. It's more than just the passing of birthdays and graduations. It's a gradual realization that my choices and actions now hold a value I couldn't have comprehended in my earlier years. The responsibilities I shoulder, the decisions I make—they ripple through time, leaving a lasting imprint on my narrative, laid out for me first with Badi Nani, then Nani. *** Nani: The eldest and only sister out of four younger brothers, Nani grew up in a completely different world than everyone before her. India had seen a whole new wave of nationalism following the separation of India and Pakistan, the independence over the British, and the acceptance of a more liberal ideology. Growing up, Nani wasn’t the typical woman. While others would be playing with their dolls, Nani made her way to the National Cadet Corporation for sports, placing in the highest ranks for discus, shooting, and shotput. Up until Nani’s birth, the stereotype of a woman’s life held true. They would graduate high school and marry into a relatively successful family where only the husband would provide for the family. The woman would be barred from continuing a college education, even if her
family had the financial means to do so. Their job was simply to take care of the home, raise the children, and provide for the husband. Growing up, Nani wasn’t the typical woman. *** It’s 1969. Neil Armstrong has just landed on the moon. Nani knew this because she had saved enough pocket money to buy the newspaper, the one that covered American news, not just Indian. As she flips through, she sees an ad for a college in the Delhi area, offering masters degrees to women–one of the first higher educational institutions to do so. As an avid dancer and singer, Nani went back home that day and begged Badi Nani to let her apply for the program. She then went on to be the first woman in the entire family, both her parents’ sides, to even receive an undergraduate degree let alone even higher. Nani went to college. Nani went to graduate school. Nani pursued what she loved. Nani raised Maa and Mausi as a single parent and provided for the family. Part of me knows how much courage and bravery it must’ve taken her. To pursue what she really loved in college––play the sitar, harmonium, and dance to the Rafi songs her own mother loved. *** When I was younger, Nani would come and visit from India at least once a year. I would often follow Nani to the kitchen, helping her by grinding up the ilayiche––cardamom––and ginger in the mortar and pestle or fetching a new carton of milk from the garage. Chai time is a staple for many Indian households. For me, it serves as a few minutes of laughter and bonding in my day. Nani would share stories of sneaking bites of ladoo or barfi from the village market or dancing barefoot in the rain. Occasionally, she would bring out her
faded picture diary while she sat down to drink her own chai––I would drink some too, except diluted with extra milk as I hadn’t unlocked the superpower of drinking plain chai without burning myself just yet. Nani would show me pictures of her as a child, of Badi Nani when she was younger, and even my own mother, growing up together in the most rural parts of Delhi. Even now, Nani inspires me to never give up. She tells me not to take no for an answer. She tells me my parents were the first from our family to immigrate to the United States from India and that I would struggle to find the balance between Western and Indian culture as I grew up. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed of your roots, Atishay. You have been given both cultures for a reason. Go out and wear the Kurta with jeans if you want. Go play Tabla on English songs. No one is stopping you,” Nani would tell me. My fondest memories of Nani have been since she moved in with us during COVID. She tells me all these stories of Maa growing up and the adversity she faced for being a single parent. She reminds me to be committed to being that source of strength for others. It was as if Nani’s stories were threads, weaving together the fragility of the human mind and the very strength that keeps me going. *** I want to pause for a moment and go back to the late 1980s: that’s when all the shit went down. Maa exits the hospital, just having received Nani’s diagnosis of backbone tuberculosis. Maa was just 17. The dreams that were stolen from a little girl’s heart were never returned. Maa had to immediately look for jobs to take care of Nani and Mausi, just 15 at the time. ***
Maa 1991, Maa just turned 17. Barely knowing how to pronounce tuberculosis, she goes to the library to find out more about this disease. Flipping through pages to scramble through medical jargon, she finds out tuberculosis can travel to the brain if not treated in the timely manner. In which case it becomes tuberculosis meningitis. The growth of the meninges with the bacteria of the tuberculosis characterized by the inflammation of the meninges. In other terms, literally deadly if not treated as soon as possible. While trying to keep her younger sister as calm as possible, Maa calmly explains that Nani will be okay. It was just a minor inconvenience. Maa just has to work 15-20 hours a week to earn money. Maa just has to do all her schoolwork. Maa just has to cook all the meals. Maa just has to apply to college. At this point, what did “just” even mean? Maa wanted to be a doctor growing up. Then she wanted to be a flight attendant. Then she wanted to be a lawyer. Of course, growing up, our parents tell us to chase our dreams, no matter how much they may change over the course of time. Maa was just another child. She had aspiring dreams and no one could tell her otherwise from having these dreams and goals. But then reality hits. In Maa’s case, her reality was out of her control. She never had the chance to pursue her dreams because of the situation she was put through. As Papa tells me, if you want to achieve your dreams, you have to wake up. Maa was already awake. *** 2012, I finally started learning tabla. Like her mother and grandmother (my Nani and Badi Nani), Maa also happened to have a passion for music, which was then passed down to me. It turns out that there’s scientific evidence for this. Experiences leave chemical markers called
epigenomes on genes in our genetic sequences. Our experiences actually create neural signals in the brain to form specific pathways and shape what’s called epigenetic modification. Positive experiences, like playing sitar and singing Rafi songs, have the ability to change the brain chemistry which can be passed down from generation to generation. God knows for how many generations this passion has been continuing but it turns out that these epigenetic markers are actually true, even for sharing a love for music. Maa sat down with me, her salt-and-pepper hair tied back into a tight ponytail. After hours of practicing ragas and kaidas, she finally taught me how to sing the Rafi song along with my tabla. She was always patient with me. “Beta, it’s okay––don’t get frustrated.” We learn from making mistakes, otherwise evidenced by the self-error monitoring regions in the brain, near our frontal cortices. We would eagerly wait for Papa to come home from his work trips, late on Thursday nights so we could show him the newest song we had sung together. Those memories of mine are etched within me, representing the cornerstone of who I am as a person––especially giving into my love for my hobbies. Maa is the one who inspired my love for music. When I wanted to learn how to sing, she taught me. When I wanted to learn to cook, she taught me. When I wanted to learn chemistry, she read books to teach herself and then taught me. Throughout my childhood, she sacrificed going to work just to devote herself to me. While Maa could’ve been working, making more money to splurge on things for herself and Papa––fancy vacations, jewelry, hand-bags, etc. she was satisfied with the simple clothing she got from India almost 20 years back. She’d only spend money on whatever I wanted, to make sure my life was comfortable. “Mom, can I please have this Nike hoodie? All of my friends have it!” “Sure, honey! Just promise me you will wear it!” Maa always wanted the best for me, as all
mothers do even if it means sacrificing something for themselves. She says this one thing that is always near my heart: “Papa and I are here to support you. Whenever you fall back, we will always be behind you and there to push you forward.” *** As I grow older, I’ve come to realize that I am the embodiment of my parents’ dreams. Their journey, one that began on distant shores, was fueled by the promise of a brighter future in a foreign land. They left behind the familiarity of India, carrying with them the weight of aspirations, expectations, and a vision of success intertwined with this so-called “American Dream.” I feel rooted in the collective consciousness of my family, a tapestry woven with threads of resilience, hope, and unyielding determination. The very dream that brought Maa and Papa over to the United States is a dream that has been passed down through generations, whispered in the stories of ancestors who dared to dream beyond the confines of their circumstances, just like Nani and Badi Nani did for me. As I reflect upon my own journey, I see the echoes of this dream reverberate in my choices and aspirations. The weight of expectation has now become a mantle of responsibility that I wear with pride. Every achievement, every milestone, is a testament to the sacrifices made by those who came before me. It is a reminder that my journey is not mine alone, but a continuation of a narrative that began long before I thought my first thoughts. It is the fusion of Indian values and Western opportunities, a delicate balance between tradition and progress. It is an acknowledgment that my identity is a mosaic, shaped by the interplay of cultural influences that have enriched my perspective and broadened my horizons.
I’ve come to learn that there exists a sort of tension between assimilation and preservation of cultural heritage. I notice several times where the women in my life have been trying to balance the cultural understanding which shapes their identities living in America. Yet, my life is now a narrative that celebrates the triumphs, acknowledges the challenges, and embraces the complexities of being an Indian immigrant in America––a land of boundless potential seen before only through magazines and newspapers. *** There's one thing that my friends and I joke a lot about. It's the fact that whenever someone asks us in a professional setting what our biggest weaknesses are, we always resort to the classic answer: perfectionism. We always have the same answer of “I devote too much time to something I am passionate about.” I remember at Exeter a couple of years ago when I was picking out courses as a prep for lower year, I wanted to push myself and take the highest level courses possible, figure out a way to double up science, and sign up for so many other choices that I know I wouldn't enjoy. At that moment, a dorm faculty told me to prioritize “breadth over depth.” I’ve since come to realize that I am at a vulnerable age in life where I have the opportunity to explore a lot of different interests. I am in no rush for specialization of a certain topic. Yet, I've often still felt a need for perfection growing up. I would and––still continue to at times––overwork myself, striving to be the best at everything. There have been several times in my life where I became obsessive about self-image, chasing approval from everyone and trying my best to appease everyone. I’ve always instilled a sense of high standards for myself, yet Maa has always told me: “strive for excellence, not perfection.” At the end of the day, if I try to chase something intangible, it will only lead me to more stress. I learned to love the process, the feeling of joy from the actual process of craftsmanship. I suppose part of my thought-process is a
quintessential part of growing up, but reflecting on how my relationship with Badi Nani, Nani, and Maa have shaped who I am today is what truly brings me the most joy.