When I heard that my dad had bequeathed his land to me, I suddenly felt like an heiress. My name became synonymous with my land. In my mind\'s eye, Dad and Mom floated on Lotus petals like Brahma and Lakshmi.

Though most of the time women lose inheritance to male heirs and the childless are made to feel obligated to leave their inheritance to their own, the news of inheritance is somewhat overwhelming. Abruptly, you are in everyone\'s radar. Those who thought you were insignificant among all patriarchal ranks, voluntarily notice your importance in decision making. It\'s as if I got an agency - to be \'indispensable\' among the male voices that would speak cunningly about how life in America is not as difficult as it is in India.

The potency of having an inheritance struck me on a dark, lonely night. I was walking home, staring at old, fallen leaves. Some were still stuck to the, trees as if their last breath could be anywhere between now and January... a far flung hope of spring still shivering in their veins.

I wondered why my father would bequeath his property to me. Though he had seen me several times in his lifetime after my marriage, he had never come to live with me. My mother was always on the phone, clinging to a folklore of her, us, and an immeasurable love that she could not express.

Of all the possible gestures of quintessential love, giving away an inheritance was probably the biggest. I know this because they were attached to their land, which they had made in unison, with love and hard work.

The darkness of the sky shimmered against the flickering lights of many such inheritances in the city, some left without occupancy some waiting for it... it was a strange feeling of lost-and-found. Increasingly, my memories of home and childhood are jostled by the growth of the city I lived in. Many times, it doesn\'t embrace me the way I remember it used to. What would it mean to own a piece of land in this chaotic conundrum of my own displacement?

A gust of cold air struggled to sweep the leaves from the pedestrian path, as my thought process continued to meander. Who would I be if I owned a piece of land? Where I would be in the middle of strange faces and stories? What would it mean to me when I have no acquaintances left on that land, where I would have cousins who I had never seen or met, babies who were born without my being part of their namakarana or anna prashana? What does it mean to me to revisit a past that would become a blur of guilt and regret?

The more I thought about it, the weirder I felt, trying to imagine a future sans my dear parents in that land. A lump traveled up to my throat and hid behind my thyroid. I shivered in that cold evening, despite the anticipation of an inheritance.

An inheritance that came without strings wasn\'t precious. I could no longer want or have it. A piece of land without people and places I knew would be as alien as the land I had immigrated to once...

It will never will be yours, mine or ours... It wasn\'t necessary, but that is how parents loved their land, just like they loved us as children, so, for them it meant a piece of them that would live with me and my children and their children. In this debris of memories, a culture, a balloon of ambitions for better life, a city that has swallowed us, and in this discomfort of space and time, we would have a land beneath that would be breathing,.. living inside us.... and with us.

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A short piece about Nivedita published in 2013

Activist and TV producer for Queens Public Televisionâ€™s Asian Indian Immigrant Experience, Nivedita Chandrappa has been perennially fascinated by the many realities that make up New York, and been fascinated by the struggles and the heartaches of new immigrants, especially from India, endure as they make their future.
Chandrappa, who has worked as a reporter in Indian publications in New York, and, in India, was a freelance feature writer at the Deccan Herald and Indian Express, says she deals with a city that is full of contradictions.
â€œI have lived in New York for about 14 years. I am not sure why people call this city the Big Apple; actually, it is a small globe where apples from all over come chasing the American dream,â€ she says.
â€œIn this city where immigrants flock, I have witnessed remarkable stories of people who have left their countries and families and come to this city and become like one of those vending machines,\" Chandrappa says. \"I might hate New York for its aloofness, but I also love New York because this is where people find their freedom -- of choice, of opinions, of celebrations, of living. Thousands come fleeing their conflict-ridden countries and embrace this city as their own. They also bring their ethnic diversity, culture, food and passion to this city and keeps it alive -- throbbing, burning and thriving,â€
Chandrappa says she is not insular and given to eating only at Indian restaurants and dressing in Indian clothes.
When it comes to food, she revels in Thai, Malaysian, Continental, soul, Chinese, Spanish and other cuisines available in the city. And Chandrappa says that it isn\'t everywhere she can learn such odd facts as that some Chinese people (from the Fukien province there) speak Fukienese.
â€œI am not sure what Fukienese speakersâ€™ cuisine looks like,â€ she says.
She also finds that despite its many charms, there is a bleaker side to living in one of the busiest cities in the world.
â€œI think it is hard to find friends in this city; most work two to three jobs, and travel all the five boroughs connected by intricate rails, forget about friendships. Most of them never see their families unless it is a weekend,â€ she says.
But New York City handles its problems better than many cities, Chandrappa says.
â€œI haven\'t been mugged, shot or swindled here, I have lived always in the same tiny apartment with two windows,â€ she says, adding that while she does love New York, she is quite willing to consider life in one of those palatial homes upstate or in New Jersey. Them with more windows, space and a little garden, you know...

Land beneath my feet