People ask me, “How do you like California?” Coming from the East Coast, my response is a firm, “Comparatively, not at all.” But something about California just scratches a deep itch in me. The palm trees, the singular crow making a ruckus at seven in the morning, the smell of a particularly wet day. I hear it, smell it, and all of a sudden, a pang hits me, taking me back two years, three, five. I’m left with longing, and I have to press my lips together and keep walking.
This winter break, I flew to Sri Lanka for a week for my cousin’s wedding. It was a trip I had been looking forward to for months—every time I’d call my dad and he’d mention his sister’s preparations, I’d be giddy. This was not a new feeling. Far from it, actually. My family makes it a point to travel to Sri Lanka almost every year, prompting that same feeling of excitement in me everytime. My parents’ whole lives are there, and tangentially, mine used to be as well.
Growing up, I holed up in my grandma’s house in the summer, in a somewhat large Sri Lankan town called Puttalam. My sister and I would be shielded from the tropical heat indoors, working on our math olympiad problems or playing card games. I’d follow my grandma around, eagerly helping her (getting in her way) with whatever she needed. The day would pass in languid work. Soon, the sun would start setting, the outdoors cooling, and people would flock to our home. My cousins, second cousins, nephews, great aunts, people I didn’t actually know. Put simply, I had the time of my life. Every day was a massive social gathering with people I cared deeply about.
Leaving Sri Lanka used to be the hardest thing in my life. Going back to school, to people I really had no care for, felt like a punishment. As soon as we touched down back in the States, I’d venture to ask my parents when our next trip to Sri Lanka would be. Until the end of middle school, I had harbored the secret desire to continue my schooling in Sri Lanka, but when I casually asked my mom about it, she laughed at me.
It was only years later when I realized what a joke that was. Sri Lankans are desperate to leave their country. Legally, illegally, for work, for study, for the simple reason of leaving. I know someone whose husband married her just for the Green Card, leaving her right after. It’s a poor country. Opportunity is somewhat sparse. When I went to get my dual citizenship, the line for passport registration snaked around the building. My dad told me about how many people approached him in secret, asking for money or favors because they knew he was from abroad. That made me feel dirty for some reason. The beautiful country I had worshipped oh so much was not as perfect as I thought.
Yet when I went back last month, everything was so comfortingly familiar. The feeling of my bare feet on the tiles, my grandma rustling around needlessly, reading on the sofa while staring at the warm rain outside. I can’t deny it’s a beautiful country. It’s absolutely gorgeous, and my appreciation for that deepened as I grew older. But the flaws became easier to see as well.
Now, whenever I think of Sri Lanka, there is sadness mixed in with that fondness. I can’t go back to the days when I lived in bliss, unaware of the problems surrounding me, my fantasies getting the best of me. Nor can my body forget them though. While New York lacked any similarity to Sri Lanka, California somehow never fails to remind me of it. The most random things will send goosebumps up my skin because of how familiar they are. I feel oddly displaced, but without the complete newness of a new home. It’s a unique feeling, one that I am certain will only strengthen as more time is spent here. They say home is where the heart is, but I beg to differ. A location can have just as much impact as anything.