Humid, smog-filled air hit me like a wave as I stepped onto the dusty sidewalk in
India. Sunshine beating down on my back and neck made me instantly regret wearing my thick magenta sweater and my full-length jeans. I felt the sweat forming on my brow while we lugged our heavy suitcases to the side of the street. Travelers poured out of the small airport doors behind us onto the narrow sidewalk, looking for a taxi to get them out of the heat. The sheer amount of people shoved on such a small sidewalk made the temperature rise and made me feel slightly dizzy. Several auto and taxi drivers approach the crowd, loudly attempting to persuade us to get inside their vehicle. Although I could somewhat understand Tamil, I could barely comprehend what these drivers were saying over the commotion of people around us. My mother quickly grabs my arm and pulls me towards an old, disheveled sedan. Thrusting our bulky bags into the trunk, we step into the car and head towards our destination.

The scent of cigarette smoke and old leather wafted into my nose as I sat on the ripped seats. Surprisingly, the driver played upbeat pop music instead of the Indian music I was used to. I dreaded every moment of this trip. In my mind, India was full of the worst possible
things; I would have to deal with innumerable mosquitoes, scorching heat, nosy relatives, and worst of all: disconnection from the internet and all of my friends. Spending my summer with all of my relatives in my father’s village was not what I considered an enjoyable time. The car jerked to a stop and I shuffled off the black leather seats. I took a deep breath, expecting fresh air, but instead the scent of cow dung hit me. Scrunching my nose, I approached the large clay stairs that lead into the house in front of me.

The village was the epitome of the middle of nowhere; there were unpaved roads, a coconut farm right next door, and cows littered the streets. As we stepped into the house, I was immediately covered with an overabundance of hugs and kisses. Around 15 of them were squished into the tiny living room, waiting for us. My grandmother, and old, frail woman with beautiful silver hair that covered the length of her back, held my hand and lead me into the dining room. My eyes traced over her face, and I couldn’t help but notice the way the white strands of hair starkly contrasted with her dark skin. Stepping into the room, I saw so many piles of plates and dishes spread over the old oak table, I was afraid if someone touched it, it would topple over. Fresh, crunchy dosas, soft brown vadas, and the subtle spicy aroma of kurma lingered through the air. Knowing that it spent hours, maybe even days, to make all of our favorite foods for us made me realize how much I had missed my family here.

Finding my
grandmother in the crowd, I slid into her arms and hugged her as hard as I could. Her signature lavender vanilla scent made me feel comfortable and at home, hundreds of miles away from my house in America. 
Somehow, after bringing a few chairs from the other rooms, we all managed to fit around the large wooden table, and immediately, we began to gorge on the enticing food in front of us. Starving after the long plane ride, my mother and I stacked our plate as high as we could. Warm crunchy aplam, a wafer-thin fried roti, filled my mouth as I shoved one after another into my mouth.

“Slow down, it’s not going to disappear! It’s all going to be waiting for you when you’re finished.” exclaimed my aunt, amazed at how fast I was eating the food.

“Sorry, I’m just really hungry!” I blurted out with a mouth full of aplam.

The room erupted with laughter and I felt myself shrink down with embarrassment. This isn’t so bad I thought to myself and I realized I genuinely enjoyed spending time with all of them. Suddenly, we all couldn’t stop laughing and I never felt closer to my family. I didn’t need the wifi, the social media, and the text messages to have fun. All I needed was my family.