*The Childhood That Taught Me Love*

I woke up one morning, my face beet-red, my temperature hotter than the tar pavement of the roads sizzling under the bright, summer sun. My grandmother sat on the side of the bed, a damp cloth in one hand, cough syrup in the other. She gently asked me “where it hurt,” a wrinkle of concern forming on her forehead. A few hours later, my grandfather arrived with a giant, brown stuffed bear and pulled out three Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate bars from his coat pocket. Seeing me lay there weak and inactive, he tickled my feet until a giggle escaped from my lips. For the rest of the day, my grandparents sat with me in bed, putting on cartoons, making me laugh, and sticking a thermometer in my mouth every few hours. I can imagine feeling ill because of the flu, but what I remember almost clearly, is how happy I felt nestled between my grandparents, spending the entire day making each other laugh.  I was about three years old, just beginning to learn nursery rhymes and memorize the magical letters of the alphabet, at the time both my parents stayed in the United States. My father worked long days on his Master’s in Civil Engineering, while my mother worked to establish a home by his side. On the other corner of the globe, nearly 10,000 miles away, I experienced the joys of being a toddler in my birth place of Kathmandu, Nepal.
One would think that a child being away from her parents would cause resentment, maybe even cause psychological and emotional trauma, but this was not the issue for me. I did miss my parents. I constantly asked my grandparents what they were like, thought about the times I would cross their minds, or what they would do if I spontaneously flew to America one day to be with them. However, I was incredibly loved by my grandparents, my caretakers that strived to provide the best for me while my parents worked and prepared for my arrival. I had thought of them as my own parents when my mother and father departed when I was six months old.
I am incredibly happy to have spent time in my birth place, experiencing the customs and vivacity of Nepalese culture. I spent holidays with my grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, enjoying good company in times of celebration. I spent weekends with my first cousins, going on adventures to the zoo and coming home with a handful of toys my uncle had purchased for me. I strolled through vegetable markets with my caretaker, Lakshmi, carrying a balloon from the street vendor that followed us through the crowded corners of the marketplace. I spent Sunday evenings going to the temple with my grandmother, allowing her to place a bindi on my forehead and a set of red bangles on each of my wrists. I return to the image of me sitting on my grandfather’s lap on the swing in our balcony, while he told me stories and sipped chai out of his bulky, porcelain mug. The moments I shared with him remain the best feelings I have experienced.
As a I ponder through the collection of events during my childhood, I feel a longing to return to those times. I love where I am now, and all that has happened since the age of three and a half, yet I crave the joy of spending Holi with my cousins, riding the rickshaw with my grandmother through the city, and smelling like earth after playing in my grandparents’ garden for hours. I desire the feeling of the wind blowing my dark hair as I learned to fly a kite in the summer breeze on the rooftop, the silk sari slipping through my fingertips at the boutique a block away, and the bizarre feeling of waiting for henna to dry on my hands. I miss all of these sensations, but especially the hearty rumble of my grandfather’s laugh, which now only remains in the collection of my memories.
As a young adult today, a moment in time does not exist where I question or object to my parent’s decision to leave me in the care of my grandparents. In the years that I spent with them, I never understood unconditional love and compassion as explicitly as the care and protection they provided me. When my grandmother brought me to America just before my fourth birthday, I feared the thought of being away from her. A new life with new people in an unfamiliar setting, overwhelmed me. I recall my tantrum as I watched my grandmother pass through airport security to return to Nepal without me. We both cried. For months, I asked my mother when I could see my grandparents again. I needed time to adjust.
Two years ago, I visited my grandparents’old house in Kathmandu, that my grandmother had sold a few years after my grandfather’s passing. As I walked through the rooms of what has now been occupied as an office building, I felt an emotional flood of memories fill my heart. I looked at the garden, which was still well-kept, vibrant and green, but missing the colorful ornamentation of my grandmother’s roses. I walked up and down the stairs, remembering the time I slipped and hurt my leg against the marble stone. I entered the balcony, feeling tears glaze the rim of my eyes, as I spotted the swing where I had listened to my grandfather’s stories. The nostalgia hurt my insides, causing me to desperately beg to be back. Unfortunately, I could not return to those days. The realization of change had struck me, but I was forced to accept it.
As I sit snuggled between the black and white duvet in my dorm room, I am stunned by the memories that pour out as I type. Every few minutes, I glance out at the sunset melting its way into the valleys in the distance, mirroring the nostalgia I feel in my heart. My childhood may have ended, but its impact on who I am today remains a constant.  At the age of nineteen years,  I view my grandmother as my role model, a strong-willed woman that rose beyond her husband’s battle against depression. I thank my grandparents for teaching me the values of my faith and culture, but most importantly for encouraging me to be passionate in what I do and make happiness a priority. A day does not seem to pass where my grandmother is not on my mind, that I find myself wanting to hear her soothing voice at odd hours of the night. I find myself dreaming of my childhood in Nepal, the years of memories permanently saved to my internal hard drive.
Living in the United States, I continue to maintain a strong connection with my birthplace and its beautiful culture. Growing up in America has allowed me to value the richness of both diverse lifestyles, one that encompasses hope for future opportunities I seek to gain, and another that will remain deeply rooted in my upbringing. I continue to embrace who I am and remain true to myself despite the differences I see in others. My time with my grandparents shaped the optimism with which I choose to pursue my life, in a way that I am not afraid to possess big dreams. I am hopeful that I will receive the opportunity to change others’ lives. My grandparents’ efforts in providing me with a positive childhood have made me realize that family is a vital part of life, and that nothing is more important to me than the relationships I maintain with the people I care about. Looking back on my days as a young child in Nepal, I hope that my own children receive the same type of love and care that I was blessed with. I hope that they will attend Nepalese festivals with their grandparents, with the same glimmer of interest that my eyes’ held the first time I saw the bright colors, tasted the savory momos, and listened to the beautiful tune of the national anthem. I hope that they too, will hold tears in their eyes after landing at Tribhuvan airport after five years since they had last set foot on Nepalese soil.  I hope that they too, will look back on simple aspects of their childhood with the same happiness and gratitude I will never forget. The love that I have received motivates me to move forward and accomplish all the milestones that I had wished to embark on when I was younger. Without my ability to look back with a smile, I do not believe I would have the power to move forward in life with hope and passion.