The Non-Resident Indian

A large number of my friends and family live abroad. In the Brahmin community that I come from, this is quite common. In the 80's many went abroad to study engineering or computer science, or to do research. Most found jobs and stayed back, returning briefly to India to marry and take wives back with them.

Most of the Indians we know abroad are first generation immigrants. Almost all are well-settled and successful, with well-paid jobs and beautiful homes. They are, as a group, quite well-integrated into the countries where they live.

But the one thread common to all of them, is that their hearts and souls are still Indian.

They are Indians, because their initial years were lived in India. Whether you grow up in a small town, or a sleepy city, or a big bustling metropolis, growing up in India is an experience that shapes you, defines you. The friends you make at schools and college, the often over-protective family that cloisters you, the extended community that you love to hate...the weddings, the festivals, the food, the weather, the crazy conversations over cricket, the laughter, the bitching, the rants about the bureaucracy - all of these define you.

So it's not surprising that almost all of my family and friends living abroad make visits to India, every couple of years. Most speak fondly of the country they left behind, and are nostalgic about the food, festivals, family and community get-togethers. As they grow into their forties and fifties and sixties, the nostalgia gets stronger and stronger, and the trips often more frequent.

But their children - second and third generation migrants - are a different matter altogether. They were born abroad, and their passports mark them as a different nationality. It's not just their accents that sound different - their slang, their jokes, their TV programmes, their food (yes, food is a big thing) - are all different. Just as my generation was shaped by India, these children have been shaped by the countries they live in.

They are, at heart, not Indian - although their well-meaning parents have sent them for Sanskrit classes, or music and dance lessons. These children will never know or relate to the many little anecdotes that bind Indians together - Ajit jokes, or the magic of Sholay, cricket.

Instead they are world citizens, global in their outlook, as comfortable with sushi as they are with tacos or nasi goreng. My nephew in New York learns Mandarin. A friend's daughter learns the cello.

The rational half of me recognises that this is a good thing - that as people migrate and spread and intermarry, many of the artificial boundaries that separate humans from each other are blurring. This is surely good for the planet.

But the other half - the emotional half - sharply mourns my personal loss. These are my friends and family, and their children, now strangers to me. As I head into my forties, I want to be surrounded by these people. Instead, they are far away, and we are each forced to move on with our personal spheres, intersecting occasionally. Digital images and facebook updates take the place of flesh and blood meetings or evenings spent over drinks, debating and laughing.

I feel especially sharply, the loss of my family. My nephew and niece, twins, were born in Cinncinnati a few months ago. I have not seen them yet. Another will be born in San Diego and I will not see that child either. I cannot gather them to me, or rock them to sleep, or tell them stories.

Even though my life is so full, I feel a sharp sense of loss. It is even worse for older people. I know elderly parents in India whose children have migrated abroad. Their days loom empty and lonely, without the sounds of grandchildren. Their visits to their family are complicated by unfriendly visa rules and alien surroundings.

All migration brings loss, yes. From village to city, or from one city to another, migration is difficult on those left behind. But migration abroad seems to have a finality, a severing of common ties, language, food and culture, that is harder to cope with. When asked, "Are you Indian?", my nieces and nephews in the US are going to answer, "No, we're American." I have yet to come to terms with that.