There is a world of difference moving to the United States at an early age than at a later one. A child notices very little, yet as the child grows up, the bigger picture becomes more prominent.

I have gotten the chance to experience both situations.

As a five year old, moving to the U.S. was just a move to a new place with a new house, new school and new people. A place where the people smiled and said “hi” to strangers. While I had no problem speaking English — having learned it concurrently with Hindi — it took me a month to speak out at school. The kids were different from those I was accustomed to. They looked and spoke differently, but they were kids just like me who wanted to have fun. With a blur of experiences, I was still unconcerned. I did not analyze what was happening.

Five years later, I moved back to India and took notice of the stark difference. I had forgotten the sauna-like humidity on rainy summer days, the rickshaws, the animals in the streets, the pollution and the poverty which all suddenly came rushing back. “Oh yeah! I remember this place,” I thought to myself.

For a moment, I felt sad. Seeing a child younger than me working at a tea shop, I wondered for a moment “what if I was him? What if instead of going to school, I would have had to work for little money?” However, I was overwhelmed with the love and affection I received from my relatives. I didn’t care if half of the country was hungry. I was happy to be in a place where I meshed into the crowd. The food was amazing and my family was with me.

But the happiness only lasted until I started school. I realized how many misconceptions people had about me as coming “from America.” Children, including the friends I made, were resentful. It wasn’t enough that I was Indian.

One year later, I was back in the U.S. and glad to be so. I felt at peace with the clean environment. On the other hand, I missed my relatives. I had begun to notice the change in my accent. I could speak English just like the other kids, but I sounded different and, therefore, felt different again.

Soon enough, I lost the accent just as quickly as I picked it up — but that wasn’t the problem. Was it just me or was it my Indian-ness? To kids in India, I was not “Indian.” To myself I was not “American.” I had seen and lived in two completely different worlds. One where I had all my family, and one where I had all my external comforts — I couldn’t decide where I was from.

I soon began to make peace with myself by being myself. Wherever I am, I am me. I have my own thoughts and my own culture — a mix of India and America.

This summer, at 17, I finally realized how my experiences have shaped my perceptions. The moment I stepped out of the New Delhi Airport, I could smell the heat, see the rickshaw men painfully pedaling away and hear the cars and motorbikes honking. Even the street dogs crossed the streets more cautiously than the people.

The narrow roads were either broken or sand was mixed into them. Cars headed toward each other as though they were about to collide, yet magically they were able to pass by safely. I felt like I was in a game of “The Sims.” I knew I could get away from the chaos by just staying inside the house. But how could I leave it? It was just so shocking, yet entertaining to see how people live in such chaos.

This is when I realized the reason I feel different isn’t me, but my experiences. It’s one thing to hear about the world, but another to experience it. Hearing stories and seeing pictures of different countries can make one more knowledgeable, but it still doesn’t create a sense of belonging. Being in the rush, feeling it, smelling it, living it, is what makes me understand the world and become a part of it.

— Lavanya Singh is a freshman in biology from Ames.