Our next submission on the things we take with us growing up in immigrant homes is from writer Scaachi Koul, who writes about her distance from her Indian background. Scaachi is currently interning over at Huffington Post Canada. She also keeps a personal blog, Big Fists, where she’s recently started an advice column featuring her dad, Papa Koul—”62-year-old Calgary-bound India-born somewhat-racist father answers [your questions] with vitriol, disdain, and a little love.” A new column every Monday. You can’t go wrong.
I’ve taken nearly nothing from my Indian upbringing. My parents moved to Calgary from Kashmir more than 30 years ago and had me ten years after that. I eventually left that home too, moving to Toronto.
When I left and made my own home in another province, the only object my mother was adamant that I take was a small brass Ganesh. As the Hindu god known for being the “Remover of Obstacles,” his figures were littered around my Calgary home.
“It’ll protect you,” my mom told me. “Keep it in the kitchen.” I asked why but she didn’t really have an answer. “That’s just where it’s supposed to go.”
That was three years ago, and since, I’ve moved four times. I don’t know if the figure is bringing me any good luck or not, and I don’t really believe in superstition, but I’m still here, so it’s still in the kitchen.