AN EX-IMMIGRANT WHO CAN’T STOP DREAMING ABOUT FLYING BACK

Ever since I moved back to India, a recurring dream has haunted my sleep. It visits me at my most vulnerable, picks at me with an unpredictable frequency. Just as I begin to forget about the dream, it comes knocking again.

My dreams, manifested fears, nightmares - whatever you may name it - are all faithful to the same storyline. They stick to one plot with minor variations: I dream of long lines at the airport, of waiting at the boarding gate, of hopping around anxiously in the line for immigration and customs, hoping, praying, that the burly white man at the gate lets me through.

Last week, the dream took on a shade of humor. My husband and I race to the airport (in the Dreams we are always either late or waiting in queues), only to realize that we have left our passports behind. We laugh and ignore the frowning eyes of the people around us. By the time we go home, grab the passports and return, the flight is long gone.

—

It’s been months since I flew out of Boston Logan for the last time, months since I had to worry about my visa or employer sponsorship, months since I had to fret over insurance and inflation.

It was surprisingly easy settling back into urban Indian life. My friends, my family, my freedom, they were all within reach. Even the organic grocery store was only a short walk away. No more driving to Whole Foods or racing to reach Massachusetts' farm stands before they closed by noon. Life in India is comfortable, brought upon by a privilege both uncomfortable to acknowledge and a relief to welcome.

I can now read about Trump and his latest appalling actions with blessed distance. I can roll my eyes and curse at American politics without fearing any backlash. In Indian politics, among the left, right, center, there is open-and-honest corruption. No one pretends to be something they are not. There are no well-crafted white-washed lies to fool the idealizing liberal. In a way, hats off to President Trump for finally slipping off the Empire’s mask.

—

Days may pass without me thinking about America or missing my American life.

But there is always someone who comes around to dangle it back in front of my eyes.

Why, we are asked. Many, many times, by many, many people. Why did you leave?

Why would you leave?

We try out different responses. Different sentiments to suit the audience. Stability, we explain. A house of our own, the visa, our ageing parents, our dogs, the slew of cats, immigration, ICE, have you watched the news recently?

When a fellow millennial or Gen Z does the asking, it is the easiest thing to communicate. A shrug and an eye roll does the trick. But it’s much harder to assuage the aunties and uncles. The ones who still brag about their children making it in the much extolled land of our childhoods.

At a wedding, I finally snapped. ‘Who wants to live in that stupid country?’ A startled withdrawal by the one who happened to ask the dreaded why. ‘I don’t want to ever go back,’ I stressed viciously, walking away before I could read the confusion - or worse, pity - in their eyes.

The bigger irony is that I now work with an American immigration law firm that helps its clients cinch their hands around the elusive green card. I advise them and develop strategies on how to better their profiles. I sympathize from a distance, the stress of being an immigrant no longer touching me. I am, for the most part, unaffected by their wants and needs.

But someone, again, that someone, comes along and unexpectedly mentions a familiar haunt: Boston, Marlborough, Westford. Any of the zip codes I had once happily belonged to. I have no time to get a shield in place, no way to repel the zing of longing that rips through me.

Today, it was Littleton. And the memories come unbidden. Of a picturesque town square, looking like it was birthed by a fairy tale, of an officiant we had met, of a hill we had climbed not once, but twice without reaching the top. The first time, I remember, we got lost and looped back onto the middle of the trail, the second time we chanced upon a female doe and her fawn. They took one glance at us and sprang away.

Our dog, realizing a second too late that deer were once prey, reared up, straining to get at the vanishing white tufted tails. Leave it, my husband commanded, and she obeyed. Dropped down, turned around, and led the way back to the parking lot. But every once in a while, she would pause and look over her shoulder, ears cocked, eyes filled with a reluctant hope.

—

Days may pass without me thinking about America or missing my American life.

But America is too good at making itself known without anyone else’s help. Movies, TV, books, newspapers. It is impossible, I realize, to escape the messaging. Even social media is awash with American content, no matter the number of times I clear my data and tell Big Tech Not-To-Track.

American propaganda is so good at what it does that a person can live their whole lives without recognizing the edges between truth and fiction. It spreads its version of the perfect life to all its neo-colonies. And we, in the global south, consume that content, believe it wholeheartedly, and long for the America Dream that forever remains out of reach even when, especially when, we live within its borders.

Because, in the global south, we are taught to believe in dreams. We believe in dreams dreamt by ourselves and others, we are told that dreams have meaning, that they must be telling us something. Signs, symbols, messages from the dead, future portents.

I suppose that makes sense. For in all the dreams I dream of flying back to Boston, not once do I manage to make it off the skybridge and onto American soil.

Harshini Rajachander: I'm a program manager, writer, entrepreneur, graphic designer and an ex-robotics engineer. I used to contribute regularly to India Currents as an immigration reporter until my move back to India. My personal essays have been published previously in The Smart Set, Fair Observer, and India Currents.