Nowhere Man

Half-century after family's migration, granddaughter finds home can be many places

courtesy Wall Street Journal

By AARTI VIRANI

About two months ago, armed with a range of artifacts that served as visual testaments to our love and commitment for each other—a monstrous wedding album, the lease to our New Jersey condo and a range of mementos that chronicled a two-year courtship—my husband and I appeared for our green card interview. Inside a gritty government building in downtown Newark, I regurgitated my personal history to a surprisingly patient officer with a generous smile: I was born and raised in Japan, to Indian parents. With the authoritative thump of a stamp, our 15 minutes came to an end. Before bidding us goodbye, the officer innocently asked whether I'd become an American citizen. Perhaps the fuzzy look in my eyes gave it away, but she instantly and amiably dismissed the question, shook our hands and wished us well. On our drive home, I quietly mulled over whether I needed to add another country to the growing list of places from which to feel estranged.

When I first arrived in the United States almost seven years ago, trading in the temperate winds of my hometown, Kobe, for the exponentially icier climes of Syracuse, New York, hardly a day went by when I didn't have to map out my seemingly puzzling background for a fleeting acquaintance, forgetful friend or even a prospective employer. In those moments, brimming with frustration and a keen sense of displacement, I would think of my late grandfather's good-natured chuckle, urging me that it was possible to straddle cultures as he had so gracefully done.

An aspiring pearl dealer, Dadaji immigrated to Japan in 1949, fueled by the fervor that was common in the post-Independence generation of India. He was the first of his family to leave the country, let alone his home-state of Gujarat. After spending the greater part of his adult life in a Japanese port city he proudly called "home," he acquired the envious ability to effortlessly fuse his multiple worlds. His closest friends—a cluster of Gujarati businessmen who arrived in Kobe shortly after he did—called him "LD-san," adding the traditional Japanese suffix to the abbreviated version of his full name, Laxmichand Devchand. He enjoyed consecutive cups of jasmine tea after dinner. He conducted swift business negotiations in an amateur but articulate brand of Japanese he had informally picked up along the years. Along with other community members, he spearheaded the construction of Kobe's only Jain temple. When a devastating earthquake struck the city more than 10 years ago, he refused to permanently relocate.

What I remember most about my grandfather is a series of scattered images. His daily glass of Johnny Walker, tinkling as he gazed at the NHK news broadcast. The scratchy, earnest rendition of "Happy Birthday" we would all be treated to on our special days. The envelopes we were presented every Diwali, with our names meticulously etched on. My father would eventually tell us that during his final years, it took my grandfather an extra half an hour to transcribe our names, thanks to his quivering but determined hands.

“He drank Jasmine tea and conducted swift business negotiations in an amateur brand of Japanese, but he also spearheaded the construction of Kobe's only Jain temple.”

It has been four years since he passed. He was 88. When it happened, I was a junior at university. Unable to make the 13-hour trip back for the funeral, I plunged headfirst into the duties of the non-profit I was working for, in the hopes of numbing parts of the pain. I can't say it helped.

Months later, I attempted to take comfort in long-distance phone conversations with my father as he recalled my Dadaji's last day. My father had visited his hospital room, clutching a strand of South Sea pearls he had purchased earlier that week at a local auction. Unable to speak but fully conscious, Dadaji motioned for my father to adjust the blinds, and then reached out his hands to examine the strand. He slid each pearl alongside his fingers until he was satisfied, flashed my father a thumbs-up sign, nodding in approval. Hours later, he stopped breathing.

Dadaji's absence has undoubtedly left a gaping hole in our family. Strangely enough, the more I continue life without him, the more apparent his sacrifices and accomplishments become. It's been over a half-century since he boarded a ship that would take him from Mumbai to Kobe. As he left his country, his loved ones and the luxury of familiarity, I can't help but wonder what convinced him to begin a life in a nation where even the simplest street signs were undecipherable. Ultimately (and admirably), he did more than just begin his own life—he built the foundation for those to come.

The thought of his slightly halting guffaw regularly provides me with inspiration, especially when I am feeling particularly rootless in a country where my mottled background is sometimes dismissed as peculiar. As to whether I will ultimately become an American citizen, I vacillate. But I am encouraged by the fact that eventually, rather than claiming lukewarm allegiances to the handful of cultures that molded me, I strive to move fluidly among all. For my Dadaji's optimism, I am grateful.

—Aarti Virani is a freelance journalist, completing a master's in international affairs and media at The New School. She resides in Hoboken, New Jersey—for now.