My Family Krish Jhunjhnuwala

The smell of saltwater drifted on the breeze. I walked down the dimly illuminated path, palm trees to my side and stars above my head, searching for my destination. Clad in a suit and tie, I readied myself for the extravagant night ahead of me. I followed the growing sound of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, an opulent twist to the traditional Indian wedding repertoire, until I reached the beachfront courtyard of the five-star resort. By this time, the celebration was in full swing. Vibrant flowers decorated the platform where the local Balinese dancers performed for the newlywed bride and groom. Servers waltzed through the sea of guests, offering everyone drinks and snacks. My grandfather on my father’s side spared no expense as the firework display began sending a steam of sparks into the wind. The aroma of dinner being prepared began to fill the air.

Three years earlier, the same scent had stirred my senses. My aunt stood at the stove making my favorite dish, idli and sambar, while I spoke to my grandfather on my mother’s side in broken Hindi about this year’s harvest. The paint on the walls had begun to peel and the appliances had begun to rust, but after seventy years of occupancy, no one in my family really cared because this was...