The Subtle Strength of Returning to a Place Time and Again

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The sound of a brass bell resonates through me as I see my grandmother clasp her hands in prayer. I imitate her, trailing behind as we circle the altar. At nine years old, I'm visiting relatives in Bengaluru, India, from the U.S. Alongside my mother and grandmother, I stand in a Hindu temple in Malleshwaram, the heart of my grandparents’ world. The scents of jasmine and champak flowers blend with the musty air, and the stone feels cool beneath my bare feet. "Take a moment to sit," my grandmother, whom I affectionately call Ajji, advises in Kannada. "It's important to pause at the temple during our visits."

Stepping out from the temple's dim interior, we are welcomed by a lively array of vendors selling bananas, okra, sari blouses, and steel cookware. I grip Ajji’s hand tighter. Malleshwaram is the Indian neighborhood I know best. The local pharmacy has been a family fixture for generations. Just across the street is the studio that captured my mother’s graduation photo back in the 1960s.

The people here resemble me. Yet, as part of the diaspora, I question my place. I’m uncertain, but the lively crowds make me feel tied to something larger than myself. At school, I was bullied by white kids. Being here, however, prompts me to ponder if I might also embody ancient stones, jasmine, and my grandmother’s steady grip around my hand.

In adulthood, I’ve visited Malleshwaram over a dozen times. Each trip has shown me that no place or person stays the same; revisiting can evoke both familiarity and strangeness. While discovering new places is exhilarating, returning to a spot holds greater significance for me. It evokes a mix of discomfort and restoration. In these instances, travel becomes recursive and layered, a means to remember and redefine ourselves and our perspectives. The meaning of a place is shaped by what we contribute, extract, and leave behind.

In my mid-20s, I revisit Malleshwaram with my mother. At a fabric shop, we run our fingers over silk and georgette. We savor filter coffee and enjoy dosas at a local eatery my mother frequented in her youth. Though she’s lived in the U.S. for nearly thirty years, this is her home, and she beams while sharing lively stories from her past. I listen to deepen my understanding of her; her laughter fills me with joy! Against the backdrop of Malleshwaram, our bond feels more harmonious, and our arguments lessen. Here, I begin to see my mother as a daughter, a sister, a woman—an enriched version of herself. I press my warm steel coffee cup to my cheek and cherish this space, this place, this moment.

Fifteen years later, in my forties, I bring 15 students to Malleshwaram’s market as part of my role in directing international education programs for U.S. universities. The market buzzes with activity tonight, yet I feel a profound sense of isolation. This is my first visit without my family. Perhaps I miss my grandmother, who has passed away. I feel restless and unsettled. I know this market well, but today, my thoughts are clouded. My identities as a cultural insider, interpreter, educator, and daughter of the diaspora intertwine in confusion. How can I be an expert right now? I feel like a frazzled mother duck, paddling harder than her wide-eyed ducklings can follow. I’m protective of my memories and sense of self. I know this feeling will pass, but for now, I need to conclude this field trip.

Fast forward to July 2022, when my 17-year-old daughter and I spend an evening exploring Malleshwaram. I show her the dosa spot beloved by her grandmother. We admire the temple frequented by my grandmother—her great-grandmother—draped in a beautifully arranged silk sari, with her gray hair braided in a bun. Malleshwaram feels both unchanged and transformed, likely because I too feel the same yet different with each visit.

"Let's find a spot to sit," I suggest. "It's important to take a moment to pause whenever we visit a new place."