My father arrived to this country in 1971 with seven American dollars in his pocket. He landed at JFK airport with one suitcase, a thick Indian accent, and clothes made by a Hyderabadi tailor to accommodate his particularly slight South Asian stature. As he was exiting the airport, confident, arrogant even, in his new homeland, he saw a man sitting on a curb playing a guitar with its case splayed open on the sidewalk next to him. My father briefly paused and watched as other Americans walked by and tossed change into the musician’s guitar case. And because he was now in America, and very eager to assimilate as quickly as possible, he approached the musician, handed him his only $5 bill (the vast majority of his wealth) and awaited change. The musician took the money, briskly thanked him, and turned back to his music. My father was shocked. Not only was he not receiving change, the remaining $2 that meagerly lined his billfold was all that he had left on him to get him to El Paso, Texas for an awaiting job. He was just twenty-two years old.

My father tells this story often and I am always eager to hear it. It is a tale filled with adventure and suspense, anecdotal evidence of the American dream, and it is the string that links my brother and me from this nation to another. And although his two children are only half Indian (my father married a mixed Austrian-Puerto Rican), my father has a saying, which he believes most accurately conveys his contribution to our heritage. “A pinch of sugar makes a whole glass of water sweet.� He grins widely when he utters this phrase, a testament to the fact that no matter how small the amount of Indian DNA my brother and I possess, even the slightest deems us fully Indian.

And so far, at least in my own life, I have found this to be true. Regardless of my genetic make-up, I have always felt wholly Indian. It’s no disrespect to my other parts, but it was the culture that I was most frequently exposed to and the community I felt most comfortable with during my childhood. I love Indian clothes, music, contemporary literature, and food. I love the accents, the smells of curry, the jewelry (who wouldn’t love 22 carat gold), and the weddings and festivals. Because I look Indian, when I walk around the mall or the zoo or a museum, other Indians who I have never met smile or briefly nod their heads at me, subtlety acknowledging the link to our common ancestry. And if they need directions anywhere, it’s me they’ll approach to ask, instead of my non-Indian husband.

Because I did not marry an Indian, I knew my children would be only one-quarter Indian. This made me a little sad at first, knowing that my half-Indianness would diminish further in my progeny. To honor my Indian ancestors, we gave our girls Indian first and middle names, pierced their ears as infants, and placed black and gold beaded bracelets on their tiny wrists. Still, I had hoped that when each of my daughters were laid on my chest after birth, that there would be something about them – some physical characteristic, that would announce their South Asian roots to the world. There was not. There are some similarities between Mira and I – she has my same chai tea latte-colored skin and espresso-colored hair and eyes, but otherwise, her facial features are strikingly similar to my husband’s. And Leela is a fairer complected, lighter-haired version of her sister. Though beautiful and perfect, the girls resemble the other parts of our diverse family, my husband’s Spanish relatives.

Despite their non-Asian looks, I do my best to immerse the girls in Indian culture and tradition. I explain to Mira the significance of Diwali, the festival of lights, and other holidays. I show her India on the map. We play dress up in traditional Indian clothes sent abroad from our relatives and visit Hindu temples. The girls know my father as “Tata.�

On a recent trip to visit my parents, we took the family to an Indian restaurant. Just shy of eleven months, it was Leela’s first taste of Indian cuisine. Imagine my surprise when she polished off several of the spicy curries on the table, licking her fingers in between, before plunging herself into another dish. Mira gorged herself on papadam, a flattened chip made out of lentils and spices. Our waiter was shocked and delighted that such small children couldn’t get enough of such spicy foods. My father, the Indian immigrant, swelled with pride to see his granddaughters relishing the tastes of his childhood.

It was at this moment that I finally realized that India, with its rich history and culture, could still significantly influence my daughters’ young lives. Although they are one more generation removed from that great county, India runs through their blood, their histories, and their souls. And even if they don’t see it within themselves, the girls will always have their Tata, the once young and wide-eyed immigrant with seven dollars in his pocket, to teach them about the sweetness of their heritage.

Anjali Enjeti-Sydow resides in suburban Philadelphia with her husband and two daughters. She has been published in Catholic Parent, MotherVerse, Big Apple Parent, and online at Mamazine, The Mothers Movement Online, and VerbSap. She blogs at http://www.lifeinthehundredacrewood.blogspot.com