2025 Content Award
Amarjot Ranu-Lavediere 2025 Content Award winner receives award from Giles Li, essay contest co-chair
|
|
|
Click on the image above to view the recording of Amarjot reading her essay.
|
A Silent Language
by Amarjot Ranu-Lavediere
by Amarjot Ranu-Lavediere
On a humid Tuesday night in August, there is laughing in my kitchen.
Leaning over the flour-blanketed counter, I watch my nani beside me make rotiyaan.
First, her thumbs press into a section of dough, then her index fingers guide another section forward and stretch the perimeter. Like magic, her hands spin the balls of dough into smooth even disks, which she then whirls in flour and allows to rise into fluffy and thin sheets of goodness on the stove.
I attempt to copy her, but my hands fall short. We laugh together through each of my lumpy and warped products.
"We learned how to do this very young raje," my nani says as we dust flour off the counter.
"It's not hard, you just need to practice."
"How did you learn?" I ask, turning to her.
My nani's face lights up as she says, "Bhiji ney mainu sikhaya ... Oh baut vadhiya banandi si, [Biji taught me, she was an expert].
Though I often ask to help my family members to prepare meals, it is rarely about the food. It is instead, another way for me to listen and absorb.
Growing up far from my Indian relatives, all I could do on my visits to see them was listen, or rather, not speak. Over towers of paranthe and steaming pots of yellow dal, I would sit quiet and unsure of myself as my aunts and uncles, and grandma and mom passed hours chatting.
When I began learning Punjabi in middle school, I imagined growing my capacity to contribute, and become less of a listener and as such, become more a part of the community I felt isolated from. I imagined that a true connection to the community meant being able to share something, my own knowledge, my own experiences.
However, in my attempt to learn more about my family and my culture, I started listening and inquiring more.
Gazing over the sloping green and yellow hills of British Columbia, I listened to my mamaji as he recounted the folly that led to his " metal hip".
In my Saturday morning phone calls with my nani, I listened to stories about Diwalis with her father, about the farm she lived in in Raqba, and about her lifelong friendships.
When talking with my mamiji about her upbringing, I learned how she was taught that it was a collective responsibility to take care of guests at family gatherings, and to help wherever she could.
Trying to connect to my family, bridging cultural and generational barriers, I discovered the power that listening intently holds. Instead of finding connections through using my own voice, I found it through hearing others'.
In my life, listening - really listening - to other people opens the door to another world where there are infinite opportunities to learn: learn about myself, learn about other people and learn about the world I live in.
Leaning over the flour-blanketed counter, I watch my nani beside me make rotiyaan.
First, her thumbs press into a section of dough, then her index fingers guide another section forward and stretch the perimeter. Like magic, her hands spin the balls of dough into smooth even disks, which she then whirls in flour and allows to rise into fluffy and thin sheets of goodness on the stove.
I attempt to copy her, but my hands fall short. We laugh together through each of my lumpy and warped products.
"We learned how to do this very young raje," my nani says as we dust flour off the counter.
"It's not hard, you just need to practice."
"How did you learn?" I ask, turning to her.
My nani's face lights up as she says, "Bhiji ney mainu sikhaya ... Oh baut vadhiya banandi si, [Biji taught me, she was an expert].
Though I often ask to help my family members to prepare meals, it is rarely about the food. It is instead, another way for me to listen and absorb.
Growing up far from my Indian relatives, all I could do on my visits to see them was listen, or rather, not speak. Over towers of paranthe and steaming pots of yellow dal, I would sit quiet and unsure of myself as my aunts and uncles, and grandma and mom passed hours chatting.
When I began learning Punjabi in middle school, I imagined growing my capacity to contribute, and become less of a listener and as such, become more a part of the community I felt isolated from. I imagined that a true connection to the community meant being able to share something, my own knowledge, my own experiences.
However, in my attempt to learn more about my family and my culture, I started listening and inquiring more.
Gazing over the sloping green and yellow hills of British Columbia, I listened to my mamaji as he recounted the folly that led to his " metal hip".
In my Saturday morning phone calls with my nani, I listened to stories about Diwalis with her father, about the farm she lived in in Raqba, and about her lifelong friendships.
When talking with my mamiji about her upbringing, I learned how she was taught that it was a collective responsibility to take care of guests at family gatherings, and to help wherever she could.
Trying to connect to my family, bridging cultural and generational barriers, I discovered the power that listening intently holds. Instead of finding connections through using my own voice, I found it through hearing others'.
In my life, listening - really listening - to other people opens the door to another world where there are infinite opportunities to learn: learn about myself, learn about other people and learn about the world I live in.
