The aroma of onions and chili powder filled the kitchen, an unfamiliar scent to my American nose. I peeked around the corner of the wall, observing my grandmother cook. She chopped up several chilies and tossed them into the simmering pot. Using the ladle, she poured some of the yellow mixture onto the palm of her hand and licked it. Her eyes widened, instantly knowing that she had perfected the recipe. 

It was my first visit to India, and I struggled to feel at home; all the unusual odors, faces, and languages were like nothing I'd seen or heard before.

As my grandmother placed the curries and steamed rice on the table, she called us all to have our first meal. I glanced around, noticing how new each dish was to me.  “Don’t you worry, if you pass me your plate, I’ll mix it up for you, so you can try everything,” said my father. I watched as he added little by little to my plate, finally mixing everything with his hands. It was an awakening to my heritage which I had yet to fully acknowledge. 

Emulating the actions of everyone around me, I began to learn how to position my fingertips and scoop up my rice just like everyone else. As I took my first bite, the spices rushed through my mouth and my tastebuds jumped in harmony, almost as if a surge of flavor took over my body. “What is this?” I asked. “It is the most delicious thing I've ever tasted”. “Well, it's one of the best staple foods here. It's called Pappu," my father humbly replied. “Pa-apu?” I stuttered. Everyone at the table had stopped chewing, they stared at me as if something erroneous had happened. “It's pronounced Pappu,” said my father with a hint of embarrassment. 

I didn't know whether to be ashamed or frustrated. The feeling of worthlessness took over and shaking sobs racked my body as I slumped into the chair. Over the next few weeks, my father corrected my mispronunciations of almost every word I uttered in doubt.  I couldn’t quite understand why he and everyone else couldn’t just leave me alone. I didn't want to be burdened with feelings of inadequacy, of being the polar opposite of what my parents desired. Soon, my relatives humorously asked me to speak in Telugu at dinner. However, I defiantly asked my mother to pass the rice in English. Although my actions convey annoyance, it wasn’t truly how I felt; I was simply afraid. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I wouldn't be able to conjure up the right words or wouldn't say them correctly. Once again, I would sound like a foreigner in front of my own family, so instead of speaking, I chose to be silent. 

As the festival of lights approached, there was a lot of dressing up to do. “Bottu,” said my father, as he placed one between my eyes. “Why don't you try saying it? It's one of the easier words to pronounce.” I practiced in my head, knowing that my accent would get in the way regardless. “Practice makes perfect. I'm not here to judge you, rather help you.”  It took me a few moments, but the words finally came out of my mouth, and for the first time I didn’t mess up! As the bangles on my wrists jingled, I was bursting in elation and ran outside to burst crackers with my cousins. 

Over the years, my father never stopped correcting my pronunciations, nor did he stop mixing my food. He made me realize that in order to honor my heritage, I must participate and fully embrace it, whether that means trying new foods or speaking my mother tongue. I learned to incorporate Indian customs, increasing the duality of my life in America. The countless lessons my father has taught me about my culture have made me who I am today. My heritage is not a mere ethic label, it is rather a significant part of my personality that I am proud to continue to uphold and that is something I will never forget.