As a first generation immigrant, deep within my heart there was always a flicker of curiously, a yearning to understand the country and culture my parents left behind. Their narrative was that they left to secure opportunities for me and my brother. But as I grew older the story became more complex. My Grandfather was a Zoroastrian priest for our community's most sacred fire temple in Gujarat, India. But it was my Grandmother, the devoted priest's wife, that convinced her eldest son, my uncle, to expand his horizons and subsequently the family's destiny. With her blessing our family's narrative shifted from a small village in Gujarat to the San Francisco Bay Area. She recognized the priestly community was slowly losing it's once heralded influence over India's Zoroastrians.
Three decades after my parents left their homeland - with a few suitcases and me, a toddler at the time, in tow - I moved back to Mumbai, into the one bedroom flat where my mother and siblings lived during their college days. It was the epicenter of "the good old days" for my parents. And where I grew from a newborn to a toddler.