When I got my green card, I had mixed feelings. On one hand, I was elated to finally have the power to chart my own journey in this country—I was no longer dependent on my employer to sponsor my visa, which meant I needed no one’s help to live in the U.S. legally. If I decided to return to India, it would be my decision, no one else’s.
On the flip side, it ironically meant I probably wasn’t considering returning at all. I wanted to get a job and build a life here—that was the whole point of going through the arduous application process. I had taken out a $5,000 loan and spent a year and a half methodically strengthening the three key criteria the lawyer said made a strong applicant.
It’s very likely I won’t get either of the jobs I interviewed for, but I’m making a concerted effort to find a way to build a life for myself in the U.S.—and the ramifications of that are only just hitting me. Dad would live alone in India.
The thought surfaced out of nowhere, much like the strands of DNA that appeared in my college science class when we added cold isopropanol to a mixture of buffers and chopped onion—a classic DNA extraction experiment for beginners. I remember our teacher using a glass rod to spool the white, webby mass (the DNA) swimming in the clear liquid.
I get up from my bed and look at the time. I walk over and squint at the slice of sky visible through my studio’s glass window. The muted streetlights in the distance make it hard, but I can see a few stars in the city sky, which never fully darkens.
Again, I’m reminded of that memory—running across our garden in Ghaziabad to turn off the water pump motor switch, Papa calling out to me so I wouldn’t be scared. I’m no longer afraid of the dark unknown; I fear the gray—the inexplicable space where light and dark blur, where you lose both the clarity of light and the absoluteness of dark.
What is it that’s made me so restless today? I ask myself. I lean closer to the gray, trying to catch a glimpse of Papa in the dappled sunlight on our home patio, a silhouette of Ma lingering in the mini herb garden. Am I inside the house—or someplace far away, looking for a place to call home?
I turn away from the blur of memories, images, and semi-darkness, not wanting to lean in further. Instead, I try to sink into the oblivion of sleep.