I was four years old when I moved to the U.S, with not even an ounce of English on my tongue. I sincerely believed I could waltz my way through this big country with a mish-mash of Kannada (regional language of Karnataka, India) and Konkani (my first language). My mom still laughs at how crazy I was — I tried to teach some of my American friends Konkani back in Detroit because I thought English was overrated.
I know both my grandfathers would be smiling down on me from wherever life is after death, happy that I did not lose touch with my heritage after all these years in the U.S. — all the while becoming stronger in written English (oh, how the tables have turned).
More than anything, my grandfathers would be proud that I didn’t lose that bold confidence to never be afraid of uncertainty, to go out and become the better woman I always dreamed of day and night. I credit that resilience to one person in my life…
My mom has always been a writer. Even though her days now tend to maintain our household, she never left her poetic ways to teach me the lessons of life. Passionate about philosophy, computers, and creative art, she even lectured at small high schools and universities in South India.
Now I am here, writing yet another piece, with maybe hundreds of impressions of my name on the Internet and social media based on the various articles I wrote for The Stute. Writing runs in the family, I guess…
Someone once told me how we should start “giving flowers to people when they are alive.” That we should show our gratitude to those who built us, who made us better — those who are with us in this moment, because who knows what will happen in the next minute, hour, or day?
Long overdue, I want to give my flowers today to the wise old lady who made me a better woman, who affirmed my hard work and good attitude will always be rewarded, and who taught me how to spice and salt my food like a pro—my amma, my mummy, my mother.
Whenever I am frustrated or sad about the way life is, she always says: “ಬದುಕಲು ಕಲಿ (phonetic: Bhaduku khali),” or “learn to live.”
Of the hundreds of Kannada-Konkani phrases she tells me, this one always stuck with me. My mom wanted me prepared for the day when there will be no one by my side, both figuratively and literally. Using life as my guide, she encouraged me to spend every day learning how to love every part of myself—all my strengths, all my flaws, all my gains, and all my losses—in a way to love every part of this ever-changing, ever-evolving mortal life.
Life will never always be easy, will never always be hard, will never always suck, will never always be joyous. Learn to keep yourself grounded and determined to make it through the tumultuous wave of another day. Can you promise yourself that no matter what’s written in the stars, you will face it with all your might?
I am ambitious, I am stubborn, and I will see to it that I achieve everything and anything I put my mind to. When you are that committed, can you ever fail?
But the reality is I have failed myself a number of times in these past 21 years of life—in hindsight they were merely hiccups in the grander growth of things—but damn, in that moment, they made me feel worthless.
Today is just a culmination of promises I made to myself during those crappy days that what is today will not be tomorrow — a promise to those who love me that I will learn to live through the lessons of another day. I have accepted that I won’t be here forever — so why not strive to cherish a life full of memories to remember?
To have been able to make it this far in my life, to this drop in an ocean of memories ahead for me, I can only credit it to the support and anchor my mom has been in my life. Her faith in religion and her honesty to live everyday with purpose has always inspired me to find value in my actions every single day.
She made me believe that to become better at explaining the why behind your own passions, you need to learn to appreciate the colors in histories people share with you.
As I finish one chapter in my life, I hope you continue to take the time to hear and write stories—and always give your gratitude to those who made you a better version of yourself today.
Note: It was only fitting that my senior essay be dedicated to my one and only rock, who never asks for her children to thank her back, but who continues doing good things for others in this short life.
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