Could a multi-generational trip to India bring my diaspora family closer to our heritage and homeland?

A few years back, I’d traveled to Udaipur, India, with my septuagenarian parents and sprightly two-and-a-half-year-old toddler in tow, staying at some of the most luxurious hotels in the City of Lakes. In one place, Oberoi Udaivilas, our room opened directly onto a pool with a checkerboard floor, while brilliant peacocks flanked the nearby onion-shaped domes. My daughter alternated between splashing around and imitating our avian friends. My parents gazed on lovingly and I patted myself on the back for orchestrating such unforgettable core memories for my family.

A month or so after we returned home, I asked my daughter what she remembered about her trip to India. She scrunched her face in thought: “I ate vanilla ice cream on the sofa with my cousins.”

I tried not to react but was somewhat incredulous. What about the majestic peacocks? I thought. Or that dinner in the gazebo with the lakeside view, surrounded by strings of marigolds and serenaded by flautists?

Parenting is a constant mix of being in awe and being completely humbled. Kids, I have learned, will rarely remember what you expect them to—and the fancy stuff hardly makes the cut. They soak in so much while traveling, but what stays with them are the moments that make them feel a certain way.

I kept this lesson front of mind as I planned a second intergenerational trip last year. This time, we’d be going to Jaipur—Rajasthan’s famed Pink City—with an addition to the original foursome. My parents, daughter, and I would be joined by her new baby brother.

Our goal was to catch a vibe of Jaipur, versus getting deep into its impressive regal history. My father had recently had a knee replacement, my mother had torn her meniscus, my nine-month-old son naps twice a day, and my spirited daughter, now five-and-a-half, holds very strong opinions. If we tried to see Jaipur on a standard itinerary, we all knew we’d end up overtired, in tears, and in varying degrees of ‘hangry’ at different times of the day.

Growing up, my mother and I bonded over doing arts and crafts together; even while pregnant, I knew I would continue this tradition with my own children. … Here, I’d arranged a workshop with Rishi Jolly, who runs a family-owned woodblock printing factory—in fact, booking this class was the first thing I did after confirming our trip.

The trip was also important to me as a non-resident Indian (NRI). Since having children, I’ve longed for them to develop an authentic relationship with their country of origin. For my part, despite growing up in New York as a first-generation Indian-American who now lives in Kenya, I was raised with, and still hold, a profound love and respect for Indian culture—so much so that I moved to Mumbai when I was 22 and lived there for four years.

Since becoming a mother, however, I’ve been at a bit of a loss of how to help my kids make sense of their ‘Indian-ness’. What’s the best way to teach them Hindi when my non-Indian husband only speaks a few words? What is the right age to enroll them in Indian classical dance? And is that even a good idea? Should we be watching Bollywood movies at home?

The trip to India was my imperfect way to make this culture, one that I frequently mention to my daughter, feel alive and dimensional. The question is: Would it work?

During four magical days, we eat well, admire intricate, arched windows known as jharokas, shop for handmade clothes, and even create our own block-printed fabrics.

Home for us is Padmaa Jaipur, a converted 18th-century haveli (traditional mansion) within Jaipur’s walled city. Simply getting there is its own adventure; our driver meets us at a designated street corner where we board his electric rickshaw, decorated with scalloped pink fabric, for a drive through the city’s winding alleys to the doorstep of the hotel.

The four-story family home had been renovated in a design style I’ve begun to call ‘Jaipuri modern’—it contains many of the classic flourishes associated with Indo-Islamic architecture, but pared back and simplified. Hand-painted motifs are paired with contemporary stripes, traditional saturated hues are replaced with pastels, and the use of pattern feels sparing and intentional. Across the courtyard, I spy a bar color drenched in a deep vermilion, a stark contrast to the light pinks and greens featured elsewhere.

Two musicians are playing classical Indian versions of old Bollywood songs in the courtyard. My daughter asks me to dance with her, while my son crawls around the makeshift stage and tries to eat the rose petals strewn about (classic second child, as they say!). My parents sit on a nearby bistro table, humming along to classic tunes from their childhoods.

Growing up, my mother and I bonded over doing arts and crafts together; even while pregnant, I knew I would continue this tradition with my own children. On our first morning, we headed to Sanganer, an artisanal district about 10 miles (17 kilometers) southwest of the walled city. Here, I’d arranged a workshop with Rishi Jolly, who runs a family-owned woodblock printing factory—in fact, booking this class at Jaipur Wood Printing was the first thing I did after confirming our trip.

For the last few months, I have been showing my daughter videos of various Indian handicrafts on YouTube, including fine-line Madhubani paintings and vibrant Bandhani tie-dye textiles. The workshop seemed a good way to both strengthen her creative muscle and help her connect to her heritage.

My mom, daughter, and I don paint-splattered aprons while Jolly takes us around the factory; my dad takes his curly-haired grandson for a walk. We spend the next three hours as block-printing apprentices,  my mom and I making repeated, layered patterns while my daughter uses a box of blocks to randomly apply on her cloth. We settle into a quiet rhythm. I am thrilled that three generations of Bansal women are experimenting with such a classic art form.

My favorite dish is the panchkutta, a heavily spiced, slightly tangy vegetable dish that originates from the Rajasthani desert and only contains hardy spices and ingredients found in the harsh biome.

I consider how much of Rajasthani design and architecture is built as a result of skilled, but undervalued, labor. Historically, the Mughal and Rajput kingdoms were both characterized by unparalleled imperial luxury and fine craftsmanship. These could only be supported by a staggering and rigid wealth gap. The men in the factory are extremely talented, building on hundreds of years of block printing experience. And yet, while the artisanry is valued as being part and parcel to Jaipur, the individual artisans feel relegated to the sidelines.

We stop for chai and cookies, and take turns playing with the baby, including our driver and some of the artisans at the factory. Jolly tells us how his father started and grew the business. “What’s in the paint?” I ask. “It seems to stick to the fabric so well.”

His face suddenly turns serious. “That’s a trade secret,” he says. “Our paint formulas are why we are so successful.”

As happens whenever I attempt a new craft, I gain immense respect for artisans. Our arms feel heavy, our eyes slightly crossed, and the smell of paint lingers in our nostrils. Getting the prints to line up is trickier than I expected, and the imperfections in my future tablecloth glare at me. On the drive back, my daughter says how she wants to hang her cloth in her bedroom, while my mother considers making pillows from hers.

‘Hangry’ doesn’t get a chance that day. Dinner is at Rajrasa, a fine-dining restaurant in Santosh Sagar Colony, a couple of miles north of our hotel and led by chef Saurabh Sharma who holds a PhD in Rajasthani culinary heritage, has published research papers on the topic, and co-founded Master Chef Rajasthan. Four of us sit in a powder-blue dining room while my son worms around on the marble checkerboard floor and we’re served hyper-local dishes on a thali (a round plate with several small sections). It’s a far cry from butter chicken.

My favorite is panchkutta, a heavily spiced, slightly tangy vegetable dish that originates from the Rajasthani desert and contains hardy spices and ingredients found in the harsh biome. Ingredients include ker, small, tangy green-colored berries; sangri, slender beans from the khejri tree; gunda, or gumberry; kumathiya seeds; and kachri, a tart wild cucumber. In another bowl is gulab jamun—not the classic dessert drowned in rose syrup, but a fried soft dough in a fragrant, savory curry. A creamy daal is topped with silver leaf, reminiscent of how Rajasthani royalty were served.

Many of these dishes are new for my parents, who grew up in a different part of India. My father says he’d never imagined that a savory gulab jamun could taste so good, while my mother recalls a pickle she once ate with the panchkutta spice blend. My daughter, to her credit, tries everything on her plate—and true to form, makes definitive declarations about what makes the “yummy” list.

Despite not following a standard itinerary, we take in some traditional sightseeing: We tour thh ornate City Palace and snap photos in front of the Hawa Mahal, a striking sandstone palace with 953 lattice-worked windows, and widely considered Jaipur’s most iconic palace. Our Jaipur-born, Hindi-speaking guide Ramesh calls my daughter by her Indian middle name, which she loves, and shares stories about the portly king who ate several kilograms of jalebi (sweet, swirly fried batter) every day. We stop at the carefully painted doorways, and my parents and I talk about how, between the factory and the palaces, we have a newfound admiration for the artistry of Rajasthan.

We can’t leave Jaipur without a spot of shopping. We haggle our way through Bapu Bazar, picking up cotton pajamas for the kids, pens encrusted with (faux) jewels, and a few pairs of sandals—some beaded, some embroidered, all distinctly Jaipuri. We shop for Indo Western dresses at boutiques including PDKF and Anokhi; I come away with a tie-dyed cotton outfit in varying shades of cobalt blue, and a matching shirt for my son.

Reflecting on our trip, I realize what we’ve mostly done is simply enjoyed each other’s company. We’ve had lingering meals. We’ve taken adorable photos of the kids. We’ve made sure the baby tried every food the rest of us ate—even if he ended up going back to rice and yogurt. My parents and I have spoken mostly in Hindi around the kids, hoping to teach the language through gentle osmosis.

A few weeks later back home, I’m driving my daughter and her friend to a birthday party. “You have to go to India,” I hear her say, with as much influence as her five-year-old voice can muster. “You’ll love it. The market sells so many pretty things. The king at the palace wore ginormous pants. And the airport is so beautiful.”

I keep my eyes on the road and smile to myself. This list wasn’t at all what I expected. And that’s exactly what I had hoped.

****

Adventure.com strives to be a low-emissions travel publication. We are powered by, but editorially independent of, Intrepid Travel, the world’s largest travel B Corp, who help ensure Adventure.com maintains high standards of sustainability in our work and activities. You can visit our sustainability page or read our Contributor Impact Guidelines for more information.