Both my sets of grandparents live in India. When I was younger, my grandparents visited every two years. And we would visit every four years.

But then my grandparents aged and their traveling halted. Our lives got busier, and our travelling slowed too. Communication diminished to weekly phone calls. And the distance between us went from a plane ride to an ocean.

This past summer, my family and I returned to India after seven years. My heart filled with excitement to see my grandparents but also nervousness. Ever since my parents told us about the plans of visiting India in the summer, it occupied my thoughts. I prepared weeks in advance, buying new clothes and packing. And I worried about going back to a country I had missed since the age of ten. What was I going to wear? Who was I going to see? How was I supposed to act?

When we arrived at my grandparents’ small apartment in the crowded city of Chennai, I did not care I hadn’t slept on the flight. All that mattered was that we arrived. The clock said 6 AM, and the day ahead became an empty glass waiting to be filled. Filled with happiness. Filled with family. Filled with memories. We enjoyed the time we had by playing cards and talking for hours.

A week and a half later, we left and took a plane to my other grandparents’ house. They arrived at the airport an hour before our flight landed. Just in case. It was a two hour drive back to their house, and I took in the sights: bumpy roads, palm trees, and mountains in the distance.

After three weeks, we left India. The trip went by rapidly—as trips tend to do. But I will remember this memorable vacation for the rest of my life.