Devasmita Bhattacharyya

My grandma, Romola Samaddar, holding me as a baby.

I have spent nearly 1,000 hours in airports and on planes in my entire lifetime, and I know for a fact that departure flights are the hardest. No matter if the trip was the best I’ve been on or if I couldn’t care less, I cannot help but develop attachments to cities and their sidewalks, hotels, and of course, their people. Change is inevitable, so while things are the way they are, make the most of it and avoid the regretful musings as you watch the city lights outside the airplane window grow smaller and smaller.

I know it’s hard to leave a place you have never called your own, but it’s undoubtedly a million times more difficult to leave a country and people that are yours, and a million times more important to make the most of every minute.

For my entire life, the city of joy, Kolkata, India has been my second home. My whole family lives there, minus my parents and little brother. Family is forever and a bond that can never be broken, but stretching any bond 8,000 miles will hurt. The distance, as well as my family’s busy lives, allows us to only visit once every two years, and my grandparents are too frail to make the over 20 hour-long trip to this town alone.

The first time I lost a family member was when I really felt the weight of the divide. I watched my mom have to manage everything by herself because we couldn’t all make the trip. We controlled our emotions because, even though my brother and I had lost a grandparent, my mother had lost her dad. Still, funerals on FaceTime aren’t the same as being in person surrounded by loved ones, and we wished more than anything to be in India with her.

From then on, every time I visited Kolkata and had to head back to the airport, and every time we dropped my grandma—who visited more than any other relative, but still not nearly often enough—off at Boston Logan Airport, there has been nothing short of tears and goodbyes that came too early. Every departure flight was a new reminder of the permanent distance between my parents, my brother, and I and the rest of our family—especially my grandma.

Still, despite this difficult truth, as school got harder and I got closer with my friends, other things captured my attention more than spending time with my grandmother. Calls would go unanswered while I pored over field journals, history essays, and journalism deadlines. 

Every so often, while I was scrolling through social media late at night, I would see a video about cherishing your grandparents while they were still here. Those would always result in me calling my poor grandmother with a shaky voice and the occasional sniffle. Deep down, I knew our time was limited, but it was easy to forget when she was always there.

I had my arangetram this summer; a performance prepared for and decorated as lavishly as a wedding, this was the culmination of my decade spent as a Bharathanatyam dancer. Typically, everyone you have ever known is invited, and of course, so is your entire family. My grandma, wracked with sickness, still found it within herself to make the perilous journey. She said she did it for me, and she also said something else that rings in my mind now: this would be her last visit to this country.

My grandma stayed for three months after my arangetram. I spent time with her, of course, but I now realize that it wasn’t enough. She left on a clear night in October. The car to the airport was solemn, with my little brother crying in the back and my mom and grandma doing their best to comfort him. I, the ever vigilant and reliable eldest daughter, did not cry. I believe any possible tears were certainly just the result of the wind in my eyes.

My grandmother’s last ever night in the United States was quietly devastating. As I looked out the window up at the thick white wires of Boston’s hanging bridge, I thought of every call I didn’t answer, every plate of food pushed away, and every moment I could have spent with my grandma, but didn’t.

I saw a quote once that said regret is stronger than gratitude. It wasn’t until that night that I realized how true it really was.

The next time I see my grandma in person will be back in Kolkata, nearly two years from today. Between then and now, I will call, and I will pick up the phone, because I know that I can help carry the weight of the divide and stop it from stretching our bond too thin.

In a poll conducted by the WA Ghostwriter on Instagram, 66% of responders said they see their grandparents more than once a year. I implore those of you to make the most of the time you are able to spend with your grandparents. With Thanksgiving just around the corner, countless families will be reunited—56% of responders to another Instagram poll said that they will see their grandparents on this holiday. Spend it with intent and gratitude and a decent amount of pumpkin pie.

Gallery • 17 Photos

Aarshia Bhattacharyya

“I keep in touch with my grandparents by calling them and sometimes going over to their houses. It’s a bit of a drive, like an hour away, but it’s worth it,” freshman Maxim Sweet said.

Even if you are like me, and your grandparents are half a globe away, call them. The phone works both ways.

For everyone, remember to cherish the time you have with your grandparents and all your loved ones. Make sure your regret isn’t stronger than your gratitude, and you will never need to feel the weight of the divide.