ON THE THIRD DAY of the trip, I headed with my family to my father’s hometown of Tirunelveli about three hours east to visit my grandmother. Due to the language barrier (she doesn’t speak English), our phone calls basically consist of the same exchange every few months:

Amma: ‘‘Hello!’’

Me: ‘‘Hi Amma! How are you?’’

Amma: ‘‘Ahhh . . . Nalla irukkiren. Niinga eppadi irukkireenga?’’ [I’m good. How are you?]

Me: ‘‘I’m good! I’m good!’’ [pause] ‘‘Okay . . . well . . . I’ll put my dad back on!’’

Now at the age of 89, she still lives in the small home where my father was raised, and which was built by her husband — my grandfather — in the 1970s. In honor of our visit, several aunts and uncles and their kids joined us.

I relate to my cousins in wildly different ways. We all get along well, but it’s easier to connect with some more than with others. Three of them grew up in the States; four were born in India, but later moved to New Zealand; and the rest grew up in India and stayed. I’m closest with the American ones, not just because we’ve spent the most time together but because we share a specific set of cultural issues having grown up as Indians in America rather than Indians in India. They know the embarrassment of inviting friends over while your dad wanders around in a lungi, a garment that looks like a dress. They also know the challenge of trying to tell your parents, who likely had an arranged marriage, that you are dating someone — and the equally dicey situation of explaining to your partner why it took so long to share the news. My cousins in India can’t relate to any of this — everyone there is rocking a lungi, and several of them have had their own arranged marriages. They, of course, are dealing with problems that are entirely foreign to me.