G’s Journal: Every inch with the Grinch

(Editor’s note: This is the first in what will be a recurring series of personal narratives by Gurjevan Bansal, a staff writer who will be sharing glimpses into her unique life experiences.)

The bed looks so comfortable, so warm and heavenly. It’s only a couple inches away, but you have to resist. You have to complete your homework, you can’t risk your grade dropping, and you don’t want to hear your parents berating you. 

That’s the great thing about having Indian parents, they’re always on your neck, they always want to know a reason or a cause for anything and everything that you do.

“WHY? Okay. WHY? No.” 

My dad always tells me those same repetitive words, as soon as I ask him about any sort of permission to go anywhere. 

My dad loves to talk about the hardships that he went through when he was my age, and then he complains about how I have it much easier than him. I don’t know who told my dad to climb over the Great Wall of China, fly across the entire earth, and then walk five miles just to get to school, every single day, but I hope they’re in the deepest pit of the underworld. 

My mom loves to encourage me to get a job in a field that I have a passion for, especially becoming a doctor. 

After she receives a phone call from some random relative that she’s not even related to, she will say, “You know (so-and-so’s) son became a brain surgeon, that’s such a difficult job, I wonder what you’ll become.” 

It’s not what she says that’s a little threatening. It’s her tone. She sounds like the Grinch but with a higher pitched voice. It’s pretty difficult not to laugh when she uses that tone.

It’s not what she says that’s a little threatening. It’s her tone. She sounds like the Grinch but with a higher pitched voice. It’s pretty difficult not to laugh when she uses that tone. 

Her appearance reminds me of the Grinch as well, especially since she appears quite elongated and round (although she’s not green… that would be a little worrisome). She comes from Northern India, and many people that come from there, have whiter complexions, pointy noses, long fingers, and typically round faces. Or, so my mother does. 

Other than her beautiful appearance, she’s a sweet woman. She’s always wondering where I am and wishing I would  hurry over to her. If I were in an airplane, 600 feet in the air, she would text me, “Where are you?” and I’d respond, “In a plane, I’m almost there,” she’d reply, “Well, hurry up.” Thank you mom, because of your powerful, encouraging words, I can now hop out of the airplane, land in the water, and walk all the way back to her, like Jesus. All of that would be much faster, then an airplane going around 460-570 miles per hour. 

My mother is also insanely dramatic, she could get a cut on her finger, and would act as though her entire finger fell off and now she needs immediate help or she will pass away. What’s ironic, is that my father is the exact opposite. He has diabetes, asthma and a strong will, yet he barely complains about anything. 

His health has always been a reason as to why I’ve been inspired to be in the healthcare field. My parents’ reasoning is the money I could make and has nothing to do with actually helping people. When people come from third world countries, they try to do their best in places that are in better economic circumstances than their home countries. My parents’ financial situation would be no different. If they have one dollar here, they have about 80 rupees, which goes far in India. Money adds up, and then they want to do some outrageous thing like, building a house in India because they’re afraid all of their children are going to kick them to the curb when they’re old. They act as though they haven’t established a relationship with any of their children in the past two decades. 

If you or a loved one knows anyone with Indian parents, or ones that are even closely similar to mine, remind them, it will never get better. With love, of course. Mom and Dad, please don’t hurt me.