The Half-Year In India Juveria Afreen Azeez   © Copyright 2025 by Juveria Afreen Azeez

Image by M Ameen from Pixabay

She had always thought of New York as the center of her universe — the skyscrapers, the subways, the constant hum that never really slept. For twenty years, that rhythm had been her heartbeat. But when her parents decided to spend six months in India with her grandparents, she felt an odd mixture of excitement and hesitation. The word India sounded vast and colorful, but also unfamiliar — like a place that might swallow her in its chaos before she could understand its order.

The plane ride itself felt like a slow unraveling of her world. She watched the lights of Manhattan fade beneath the clouds and wondered what waited at the other end. Her mother kept talking about how good it would be for them to reconnect with family — “It’s been years since we’ve seen them properly, beta,” she said, smiling. Her father nodded from the aisle seat, his face already relaxed in a way it never was during his long hours in New York.

When they landed in Dehradun, the air was thick with warmth, almost perfumed with something earthy and sweet — dust, rain, and maybe flowers she couldn’t name. The roads were narrow and winding, lined with fruit stalls and scooters that zipped by like thoughts. She pressed her face to the car window as they drove to her grandparents’ house, her eyes wide, her mind a blur.

The house stood tall and slightly old, with whitewashed walls and a balcony wrapped in bougainvillea. Inside, it was alive — not just with people, but with sound. Voices came from every corner: her grandmother calling out instructions to the cook, cousins laughing somewhere upstairs, utensils clinking in the kitchen. It wasn’t the kind of house where silence existed.

She was shown to her room — or rather, their room — which she would share with two of her cousins. The girls, around her age, greeted her warmly, excited to have their “foreign cousin” stay with them. But as night fell, and she tried to unpack her suitcase, she realized privacy was a luxury here. The room door opened often — a cousin coming in for a comb, an aunt looking for something, her grandmother dropping off folded laundry. It wasn’t rude, it was just how things were. Still, she felt her New York habits clashing silently with this new rhythm.

Meals were a world of their own. At first, she was dazzled by the colors — the bright yellows of dal, the deep reds of curry, the glisten of ghee. But she found the food heavier, spicier, more fragrant than she was used to. At home in New York, her mother cooked Indian food often, but it was lighter, milder — a balance between two worlds. Here, though, every meal felt like an explosion of flavor. Her grandmother would insist, “Eat more, you’re too thin!” and pile her plate with chapatis, curries, and sweets.

She didn’t compare Indian and American food — that seemed unfair — but she couldn’t help comparing this to her mother’s kitchen. The food here wasn’t just nourishment; it was love, pride, and routine all folded into one. And while she sometimes missed the crisp salads and light soups from home, she found herself slowly adjusting, learning to appreciate the slow, communal rhythm of meals.

What she struggled with most wasn’t the food or even the noise — it was the rules. She couldn’t go out alone. The first time she mentioned wanting to walk to the nearby market, her aunt frowned slightly. “Not alone, dear. Take your cousins. It’s not safe for girls to go alone here.” She nodded, trying not to show her frustration. At first, she assumed it was because she didn’t know the area, but soon she noticed her cousins also needed permission — they always informed someone where they were going, and they always came back before sunset.

It puzzled her. In New York, she had taken the subway alone since she was fifteen. Freedom was part of her growing up. Here, it was guarded — even shared.

Yet, as the days went by, she began to see what sat beneath those rules. In the evenings, when the whole family gathered on the veranda for tea, the women chatting, the men discussing politics, she noticed something she’d rarely seen back home — togetherness. People didn’t scatter into separate rooms or scroll on their phones during dinner; they lingered. Conversations stretched into the night. Her grandmother would tell stories from her youth, the cousins would joke and tease, and sometimes even small arguments erupted — but they always ended in laughter.

She saw her two aunts arguing one afternoon — a sharp exchange over something trivial, maybe the way a dish was cooked or a remark misunderstood. The argument was quick but intense, voices rising, eyes flashing. Yet an hour later, they sat together on the swing outside, drinking chai, as if nothing had happened. It confused her at first — how could people fight so openly and then simply move on? In New York, arguments often lingered, quiet but heavy. Here, they burned fast and faded even faster.

Life in Dehradun moved differently — slower, but deeper. In the mornings, she would wake to the sound of temple bells in the distance, mixed with the crowing of roosters and the hum of daily chores. Her grandmother prayed in front of a small shrine, the scent of incense filling the house. She found herself drawn to those moments — small rituals that carried meaning she couldn’t fully name.

Sometimes she would sit by the balcony and watch people in the street below — the vegetable vendors calling out prices, children in uniforms hurrying to school, women carrying baskets of flowers. What struck her most was how easily people talked to one another. Strangers greeted strangers. Shopkeepers asked about families. It wasn’t politeness; it was familiarity, a shared belonging she’d never experienced in her city of millions.

At times, though, the differences overwhelmed her. The crowded rooms, the constant movement of people, the lack of quiet — she missed solitude. There were days when she longed for her small New York apartment, for the hum of her favorite café, for the anonymity of walking through a street where no one knew her. Here, every gesture was noticed, every word traveled. Privacy didn’t exist, but care did — and she wasn’t sure which one she valued more.

Weeks passed, and she began to notice changes in herself. She learned to wash her clothes by hand on the terrace, to balance a glass of chai while sitting cross-legged, to speak bits of Hindi without stumbling. Her cousins took her to the nearby bazaar one afternoon — a swirl of colors and smells, with stalls selling everything from bangles to books. She loved how alive it felt, how even bargaining became a kind of conversation.

When she returned home that day, her grandmother smiled and asked, “Did you enjoy?”

She nodded. “It’s… different. But it’s nice.”

Her grandmother laughed softly. “India is like that. Different, but nice.”

After a few months in Dehradun, her parents decided to travel across India before returning to New York. It was a family plan — cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandparents all together. The idea of seeing more of the country thrilled her.

Their first stop was Kashmir, where snow-capped peaks surrounded calm lakes. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and saffron. She rode a shikara on Dal Lake, her fingers trailing in the cold water, and felt a peace she hadn’t known she needed. From there, they went to Delhi, a city bursting with life — ancient forts beside glittering malls, traffic jams beside quiet temples.

In Agra, she stood before the Taj Mahal and felt the weight of history in its white marble glow. “Pictures don’t do it justice,” she whispered.

Her father nodded, smiling. “Some things have to be seen, not shown.”

From there, they traveled through Jaipur, where the palaces glimmered in the sun, and Punjab, where golden fields stretched endlessly under the sky. The family danced at a roadside dhaba, laughter mixing with the rhythm of dhol beats. Finally, they flew down south — to Kanyakumari, where three seas met, and Kerala, with its green backwaters and quiet, slow-moving boats. Each place felt like a different country — languages changed, foods changed, even the color of the air felt different.

But with travel came moments of discomfort, too. In some cities, people stared at her — curious about her accent, her clothes, the way she carried herself. Once, while exploring a local market in Jaipur with her cousins, a group of boys mocked her accent. “Hey, foreign return!” one of them laughed. Another sneered, “Why are you pretending to be Indian if you’re American?”

She felt her face burn. “I’m not pretending,” she said firmly. “I am Indian — just raised somewhere else.”

They laughed again, mimicking her words in exaggerated tones. When she pointed out that many girls around wore western clothes too, they dismissed her, teasing her for her language. Her cousins stepped forward to defend her, only to be mocked as well.

Finally, she said, voice steady but sharp, “It’s my life. You don’t get to decide how Indian I am. You’ll never be like me — and I’ll never want to be like you.”

There was silence for a moment. The boys looked taken aback. Her cousins grinned, proud. They walked away, heads high.

That evening, as they drove back to the hotel, she felt something shift inside her. She had spent months feeling like she didn’t fully belong — too American for India, too Indian for America — but now she realized belonging wasn’t something people gave you. It was something you built yourself.

The rest of the trip felt lighter. She laughed more freely, shared snacks on trains, and even began to enjoy the chaos of crowded streets. She no longer minded sharing her room with cousins; she started to love the noisy mornings, the collective laughter, the way everyone called each other by nicknames.

When the time finally came to leave India, she felt a quiet sadness. She stood by her grandparents’ gate, looking at the bougainvillea vines one last time, and promised herself she’d return — not as a visitor, but as someone who understood.

Back in New York, everything looked the same — the skyline, the yellow taxis, the rush of people — yet something inside her had changed. Her parents slipped back into their old rhythm easily: morning coffee, takeout dinners, late work calls. She watched as her mother began cooking lighter meals again, her father checked emails during dinner, and realized how quickly old habits return.

But she wasn’t the same. She found herself calling her grandparents more often, texting her cousins, craving the warmth of shared meals. At dinner one night, she looked at her parents and smiled. “You know,” she said softly, “I think I finally understand what family really means.”

Her father raised his eyebrows. “Oh? What does it mean?”

She thought for a moment. “It means… noise, food, laughter, fights, and still choosing to sit together afterward.”

Her mother laughed, reaching for her hand. “Sounds about right.”

As she gazed out the window at the city lights, she thought of Dehradun — of the crowded room she once resented, the spicy food she once struggled with, the people who once felt like strangers. Every place, she realized, has its own rhythm, its own beauty, its own truth.

And somewhere between New York’s steel skyline and India’s mountains and markets, she had found hers.

*****

I’m Juveria Afreen Azeez , an author from Bengaluru, India, now living in Jersey City. Surrounded by a close circle of Indian friends here, I draw inspiration from our shared stories of culture and identity. I write both fiction and nonfiction, exploring themes of belonging, tradition, and self-discovery while experimenting with new forms of storytelling.