January 17, 2026
When you eat the fruit, think of the one who planted the tree.
Vietnamese proverb
Last month I hosted my Uncle and Aunt from Michigan, who were the first ones in our family to make the trip from India to the US in the 1966 to start a new life here. I treated them as best I could: with a cruise, a gym membership during their stay, and an 80th birthday celebration. In other words, with the kind of love and care that I believe they deserve having made such a sacrifice to leave their families behind, leading to my parents immigrating more than a decade later, and a few years after that, my birth in Michigan.
Sometimes I think of what my life would be like if my parents had still lived in India. Would I still be there too? I don’t know for sure, but having visited the motherland a number of times, I can say one thing with complete certainty: I am very fortunate to be living in America. And it goes without saying that if I weren’t in the US, my kids wouldn’t be here (anywhere?) either.
I imagine many immigrants carry this quiet, constant gratitude — a hum beneath the noise — for those who came before. For the ones who made the hard decisions. The ones who planted the tree. We eat their fruit every day, and it’s always just as sweet. The mala beads I wear around my neck are a daily ritual of remembrance. Each bead, a presence. When I put them on, I feel my ancestors with me — watching, guiding, rooting me on — saying: keep eating. Keep planting. You’ve got this.