I was born in India—but I’ve never been there.

“Some day, I hope to go back,” I sighed, free-falling into the comforting embrace of my parents’ queen-sized mattress. As my body hit the sheets, I imagined the smells and colors of places I had never been to, and the voices of people who I had never met. At five-years-young, the blurry line that demarcated the threshold between my imagination and reality had not yet come into focus.

“What do you mean go back…?” my sister demanded, glaring at me over the pages of her latest Judy Blume book.

I sat up straight, turning to face her patronizing tone head on. “Back to India—I was born there!” I declared, crossing my arms staunchly. Condescending laughter escaped my sister’s lips as she stumbled towards the stairs, weakened by the humorous weight of my comment.

“Mom, you’ll never believe what Emma just said!” she shouted, bare feet hitting the wooden floor as she ran giggling into the kitchen.

As I acknowledged the stark contrast between what was merely a fact from what was a figment of my imagination, I crumbled into a ball of embarrassment, giving myself over to reality’s bitter embrace. After what felt like an eternity of listening to the mocking sounds of my family’s voices echoing through the halls of our Brooklyn home, I felt the weight of someone’s hand pressing down on my shoulder. I knew who it was without having to look up.

“Why are you ashamed? There is no need,” her voice coddled, as she settled down next to me, pulling me into her arms. Lifting my head, through clouds of distraught tears, I leveled my gaze with hers. Her oval eyes were filled with warmth, her face worn from the years of adversity she had faced in the time she put 7049 miles between herself and her family in Dharamshala. Her name was Bhuti, who I for years, have named my creative champion.

Although older than my parents, my Nanny Bhuti was saturated with youth. She was a glass half full kind of person, finding light in the darkest of places. If I ran, she ran faster. If I sang, she sang louder. With her, my imagination ran wild—and she loved it.

As we grow up, we let the cradle of imagination slip through our fingertips as we favor practicality over things we assume we have outgrown. The overarching principle behind my early words sheds light on a more important issue—the indirect relationship between age and creativity, and the shameful gaze society casts on minds that deviate from the norm.
 

In an often mundane world, we put an expiration date to our imaginations, when they instead, push us further outside of the box. We allow them to escape, as we assume we are no longer characteristic of reaping their benefits—but I don’t. Bhuti kept the flame of my imagination alive, using her culture as the driving force to set my imagination in motion. The days of dress-up in Tibetan chupas and the savory smells of momo have long faded, but the creative footprint Bhuti left in her wake has been everlasting. I have watched with curious eyes as that small flame has grown into a roaring fire, igniting all mediums of my life with passion and innovation. From soccer fields to calculus problems, I am a creative thinker. I blaze my own trails, author my own life, and refuse to accept the world simply at face value. I have a firm grip on my imagination—and I do not intend on letting go.
My birth certificate says it all; I wasn’t born in India, but one day I will go back and I will rediscover what was behind the visionary illumination of my five-year-old mind.