When people ask me what I left behind in India,
I don’t think they understand
the layers of that question.
Leaving a country
is never just about geography.
It’s about leaving
versions of yourself
that only existed
in that soil,
in that air,
in that rhythm of life.
I left behind
a woman shaped by her own
quiet innocence.
Someone who believed
everything could be softened by love.
Someone who thought intentions
were enough to carry you through.
I was naïve
in the best possible way.
I believed in people easily.
I trusted easily.
I saw the world through rose-colored glasses
and didn’t yet know
how heavy real life could become.
But I also left behind
a woman who had grown into herself
professionally
in ways I could never have imagined
when I was younger.
I studied at India’s best film school at the time.
Six hundred people applied.
Twenty-five were accepted.
I was one of them.
That acceptance changed me.
It showed me
I had a voice.
A talent.
A place
in a world I once thought
was too big for me.
From there,
I carved out a path
where no paths existed.
I started one of the first
film-teaching programs in Bangalore
when “film education”
wasn’t even a phrase
people understood.
Later,
I started my own film school -
the first of its kind in India -
and ran it for twelve years.
It grew.
It thrived.
It touched lives.
I built a reputation as a teacher
not because I was the best,
but because I taught
from instinct,
intuition,
and an ability
to understand people deeply.
For the first time in my life,
I grew into self-confidence.
I became someone
students trusted,
parents admired,
colleagues respected.
And I didn’t realize then
how fragile that confidence could be.
How much of it came
from being rooted
in a place
where people already knew
who I was.
I didn’t know
that when I came to America
I would have to start
every bit of that journey
again.
Here,
the rules were different.
The people were different.
Trust was different.
The systems were different.
I didn’t anticipate
that the professional foundation
I had built brick by brick
would not automatically translate
into this new world.
I didn’t know
I would have to explain myself
from scratch -
my experience,
my identity,
my talent.
All of it.
I didn’t know
I would once again find myself
in rooms
where I was misunderstood
or overlooked.
That my accent
would become a barrier.
That my skin
would speak
before I even opened my mouth.
I used to tell my students,
“You forgot to think,”
when their answers
didn’t quite make sense.
In hindsight,
I can safely tell myself the same thing.
You forgot to think.
Think about what moving
to a different country
halfway across the world
might mean
to a forty-five-year-old woman.
If I had known all this,
maybe I would have hesitated.
Maybe I would have chosen differently.
It’s impossible to say.
But the hardest part of leaving
wasn’t professional.
I left behind my comfort zone.
My friends -
my lifeline
through every heartbreak
and every triumph.
I left behind my mother,
not knowing then
that she was nearing
the last years of her life.
I left behind
familiar sounds,
familiar smells,
familiar versions of myself.
I left behind
the city that shaped me.
The community that understood me.
The sense of belonging
that took years to build.
I left behind
someone who was respected.
Someone who had carved out
a small corner
for herself.
And…
I left behind
my children.
I came to America
before they did.
And while people talk
about courage,
about chasing dreams,
about starting over,
nobody talks about
the courage it takes
to walk away from your children
even for a little while.
I cried
the entire twenty-four-ish hour journey
to the U.S.
My body was moving forward.
My heart stayed in India.
Every mile
felt like a betrayal.
Every minute of the next several months
didn’t feel worth living for.
And in the midst of all this,
I didn’t realize
that the only person
I would truly have here
was Melvin.
Someone I had known for just a year.
Someone I had never lived with.
Someone whose rhythms
I didn’t yet understand.
Suddenly,
the man I exchanged messages
and calls with
became my only anchor.
Living full-time
with someone you barely know
is its own kind of challenge -
gentle in some moments,
shockingly difficult in others.
Neither of us
fully knew
what we were stepping into.
And still…
I took the leap.
And that is perhaps
the greatest lesson
India taught me -
the one I carried
across the ocean
without knowing it.
You don’t always need to know
what lies ahead.
Sometimes you take the step
because something inside you whispers,
Go.
And if things fall apart,
you get up.
You gather yourself.
You make things right again.
You keep walking.
You keep growing.
You trust
that the path will reveal itself.
And somehow,
it always does.
I left behind
so much in India.
But leaving
wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning.
The beginning
of becoming someone
I never imagined
I could be.