I was standing on the third floor terrace of the home my father grew up in Kharar, Punjab, India, when I noticed my niece playing in the dirt yard below. I felt the cool morning breeze on my face and took in the fresh Punjabi air. It was one of those moments in your life where nothing memorable happens but, for some reason, you’ll never forget it.

I was home for the first time in my life. I never knew how lost I was until I came home. Being born in the United States of Indian descent thrusts you into a double life. I lived in America but inside our home, I was in India. It’s not something you’re consciously aware of yet it permeates through all facets of your life.

No matter the fact that I was born in the U.S., if you look at me, I look Indian, but if you talk to me, I speak as an American. To add to the confusion, I was born and mostly raised in the south but went to high school and college in the north. Northerners considered me a Southern Boy and southerners called me a Damn Yankee. I was truly a man with no home.

But here, in this rural community that I had never been to before, where my grandfather built the tallest house in the village, and our family has farmed for generations, I was home. I wasn’t labeled with any name other than ‘son’.  No one asked anything of me other than I be happy. And, so, in this moment, I was.

I stood on the rooftop for hours and just took in the feeling. I could see for miles and miles in every direction but my focus kept coming back to my niece. She sat there in the dirt playing with a long piece of string. She would make different shapes out of it and twist it and twirl it. The longer I watched her, the sadder I felt. Poor child didn’t have any toys to play with. How blessed was I to grow up in the United States and have more toys than I could ever play with?

She was nine-years-old and quite accomplished considering where she grew up. Her school was around the corner from the house. It was a dirt field with a lonely chalkboard standing in the middle of it. No building. No walls. No chairs, even. The children just sat in the dirt and listened to their teacher. Despite this lack of facilities, she spoke five languages fluently, including English. She was also an accomplished dancer and musician and most importantly, she was full of life.

Never mind the fact that I was more than double her age and only spoke English with a rudimentary understanding of Punjabi, or the fact that I had no discernable talent to speak of, I felt sorry for her. I needed to do something to help this poor child. So, I decided that I would go into the city (Chandigarh) and get her a real toy/game to play with. I would give her a small taste of the American dream that I was blessed to live. And so, I went and bought her the game Parcheesi, which is originally based on an Indian game.

Her reaction when I gave it to her was more than I’d hoped for. Her eyes lit up and the smile on her face made the tiny price I paid so worth it. I mean, it was like she won the lottery. I’d never seen anyone so happy about anything ever. This was going to be awesome.

“All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.”
~ Edmund Waller

So, we set up the board and every step of it was like some kind of magic to her. I gave her a board piece and she was amazed that she got a piece. I laid out the board and she looked at it like it was the most incredible thing she’d ever seen. As we started to play, I gave her the dice to roll and she acted as if I’d given her a bar of gold. She rolled with such joy that I cling to that memory in hope that, one day, I’ll be that happy about something, anything.

Then, as we progressed, I explained to her that the first person to complete their way around the board would win. When I told her that, her whole body swelled with so much excitement that I thought she might, actually, explode. She slowly looked up at me and asked, “Win what?”

I smiled broadly when I answered her, confident in the fact that I had enlightened this child with a wonderful learning experience. “Win the game,” I said. Yes, she nodded, “but what do you win?” I tried to explain that by winning the game you establish your dominance over the other players. That you win bragging rights. That you, you know, win. It was not a concept that she was familiar with nor interested in.

Her excitement dissipated like a deflated balloon. I tried to speak about it with excitement but the joy was gone. We clunked our way to the ending but she no longer had any interest. This was a waste of her time.

That night, I lay in bed thinking about why winning was so important to me. What did it actually mean to win a game against family or friends? We don’t get a trophy or a championship. We don’t improve our station in life in any meaningful way. All we really get to do it make everyone else feel bad because of it.

The next day I stood atop of the house and watched her back in the dirt yard playing with her piece of string again and I had a powerful epiphany. I realized that I’m the one I feel sorry for.