At the time I was in a serious relationship with a man who, like me, is originally from India. We had been introduced to each other by our parents in the hope that we would eventually marry. He was living on the West Coast at the time, while I, having just graduated from college, was living at my parents’ home in Greenville, S.C. But he and I communicated constantly, through e-mail, instant messages and by phone—running up huge cell phone bills. He visited me and my family in Greenville, and we all got to know each other. He was very well educated, successful in his career, handsome, and, of course, came from a traditional Indian family. We liked the same kind of food, listened to the same music, and were very attached to our parents. Everything was perfect.
Then came my diagnosis. Shortly afterward my boyfriend dropped me like a rock. He had certain expectations for his future and felt that marrying someone with such a serious chronic disease was just not part of his life plan. We ended our relationship. I was devastated. Still reeling from the news about my health, and clinging to my family for support, I withdrew completely from the normalcy of my previous life.
And then came Chris.
I had known Chris for six years. We’d worked together at the local shopping mall one summer. He was a close friend, and we kept in touch throughout our college years, while I was living in Clemson, S.C., and he was in Columbia, S.C. When we both moved back to Greenville after college, we had lunch a few times a week, went to the movies together and accompanied each other to Christmas parties and other social events. Though we spent a lot of time together, I had never entertained the idea of dating him seriously because I didn’t think my family would approve of a non-Indian boyfriend. In spite of having lived abroad most of my life, I had always expected that I would marry an Indian guy, not an American, especially not one who’d grown up so differently than I had.
Chris was born and raised in the South and had never been on an airplane. I had lived on three different continents before I was 15. He ate everything under the sun, and I was a vegetarian. He was a devout Christian and I was a Hindu. I was a Clemson Tiger and he was a University of South Carolina Gamecock. It just wasn’t possible.
But while I was busy concentrating on my preconceived notions about Chris, he began picking up the pieces of my life and putting me back together. He came with me to my doctors’ appointments and stuck around when I had to take my injections. He was still there week after week when I was sick to my stomach with side effects from my treatments. He became my best friend. Slowly all my stereotypes started breaking down. All the differences that I was so sure should keep us apart became reasons to be together. He taught me how to be more patient, how to change a flat tire and how to use a punching bag. I taught him how to balance a checkbook, took him on his first plane trip, and showed him how to use just the right amount of garam masala. And while Chris is still a happy omnivore and I remain a vegetarian, we both managed to gain weight after we got married. He’s still a Christian and I’m still a Hindu. We attend services at both churches and temples. Our house is divided not by faith but by the arch rivalry between Clemson and USC. We celebrated our three-year wedding anniversary in July. My family adores him.
I am convinced that my illness was just a means for me to find this happiness. It was a blessing in disguise. It taught me to look beyond all the things I thought were so important. The differences in culture, religion and life experiences are not what kept Chris and me apart, but what brought us together. I’m certain that we will come across some tough times, but I’m also convinced that whatever path lies ahead of us, we will travel it together. And that is my faith.
