My First Travels Were Through Stories My Grandmother Told

It was eight in the morning, and the prickly July humidity had already seeped through my skin as I hopped out of the cab in Singapore’s Little India. Greeted by the bustle of vendors setting up, I was transported back to my childhood, to days spent wandering the neighborhood with my grandmother. The aroma of fresh coriander from vibrant spice stalls spurred memories of her tangy coconut prawn curry. The musky fragrance of jasmine adorning colorful flower stalls reminded me of how she’d woven them into my braids. She never would again.

The air around you changes when someone you love leaves this world. My grandmother’s death was not a surprise, but the shock that I would no longer make new memories with her broke me. When I moved to Vancouver nearly seven years earlier, I’d left behind my family—her most notably, my eternally curious grandmother, who taught me how to be the same, how to notice the world.

She spoke many languages: English, Malayalam, Tamil, and Hindi—even a little Japanese, since she grew up during the Japanese occupation of Singapore. Words confidently left her lips as she spoke with native speakers in their mother tongues. I’ve heard that mastering a language as an adult was difficult, but the sight and sounds of her code-switching with confidence to connect with others encouraged me to follow my own curiosities.

When I first arrived in Vancouver, in 2012, my natural reaction was to find something familiar, a Singaporean community—not particularly difficult given the city’s strong Asian diaspora. But there was a voice in my head that told me to try something new; perhaps it was my grandmother’s. After I signed up on a whim to volunteer at an annual Mexican independence day celebration, I started Spanish lessons too. Years later, I now split my time in Medellín and Vancouver; my hard-earned fluency has paid off. My curiosity has reaped dividends. I have my grandmother to thank for it.

In 2019, when my mother in Singapore said that my grandmother wasn’t doing well, I booked the first flight home. But flights are long and phone calls don’t make it through. She died while I was somewhere over the Pacific; I missed saying goodbye to her by five hours. At her funeral, I navigated conversations with people I hadn’t seen in almost a decade, opening the door to a past self: that of a young Nikkita too afraid to voice her opinions, too concerned with good impressions. That identity was one I’d long outgrown after my time in Vancouver, where I knew no one, where I had a chance to develop my individuality, where I incorporated the lessons my grandmother instilled in me.