Saris and Watalappan
By: Amashi Arachchi
I’ve always felt like I was standing on a bridge, stuck between two worlds that never quite met. Born in New York City to Sri Lankan immigrant parents, I grew up in this strange in-between space. At home, everything was different. I was expected to speak Sinhalese, eat with my hands, and respect traditions that, honestly, I barely understood. But at school, in my mostly white high school, I was just "Ayomi," the girl with the “exotic” lunch and “weird” holidays.
The problem really came crashing down on me when I turned seventeen. My school’s annual Culture Day was coming up, an event where students shared parts of their heritage. My best friend, Grace, was super excited about it.
“You should totally do something for Culture Day!” Grace suggested one afternoon as we sat together in the school cafeteria. I hesitated and pushed my lunch around on my plate. “I don’t know, Grace. What would I even do?” Grace’s eyes lit up. “You could wear one of those beautiful saris and maybe bring some Sri Lankan food! You always talk about how amazing your mom’s cooking is.”
My stomach knotted up. “But I’m not… I mean, I don’t know if I’m really ‘Sri Lankan’ enough to represent that. I was born here. I don’t even know how to properly wear a sari.” Grace frowned, clearly not understanding. “But it’s your heritage. Who else would do it if not you?” I shrugged, trying to brush off the conversation, but it stuck with me. That night at dinner, I brought it up with my parents.
“Amma, Thattha, there’s a Culture Day at school, and Grace thinks I should do something Sri Lankan, but I don’t know…” My mom, Amma, looked up from her plate, eyes bright with interest. “That’s a wonderful idea, Ayo! You could wear my red sari and make some watalappan.” My dad, Thattha, nodded in agreement. “You should be proud of where you come from, Ayomi.”
“But I don’t even feel Sri Lankan half the time,” I mumbled, barely able to look at them. My parents exchanged a glance, and Amma said softly, “Ayo, it’s not about where you were born or how well you know the customs. It’s about your heart. You’re both Sri Lankan and American. You carry both within you.”
Despite what my parents said, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being an imposter. How could I represent a culture I barely understood? The thought of standing in front of my peers, trying to explain something I didn’t fully grasp myself, filled me with dread.
As Culture Day got closer, I grew more anxious. I started dodging Grace’s questions about my plans and distanced myself from the idea altogether. I couldn’t admit that I was scared. Scared of not being Sri Lankan enough, scared of being judged, scared of failing.
One evening, as I was flipping through old family photos, I found a picture of myself as a little girl, standing between my grandparents during a visit to Sri Lanka. I was dressed in a traditional frock, and my grandparents were beaming with pride. I remembered that day, how I had felt so out of place, yet so loved.
I decided to call my grandmother, Aththamma, in Sri Lanka. Her voice, warm and rich like milk, immediately put me at ease.
“Aththamma, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, my darling. What is it?”
I took a deep breath. “How did you feel when you came to America for the first time? Did you ever feel like you didn’t belong?” Aththamma chuckled softly. “Oh, Ayo, I felt like fish out of water! Everything was so different, the food, the language, the people. But then I realized something important. Belonging doesn’t come from outside, it comes from inside. I carried my culture with me, in my heart. And I learned to find pieces of home wherever I was.”
I listened intently, feeling the knot in my stomach loosen slightly. “But what if I don’t know enough about our culture? What if I’m not Sri Lankan enough?” Aththamma’s voice softened. “You are enough, just as you are. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. The only thing you need to do is be yourself, and everything else will fall into place.”
The next day at school, I found Grace waiting for me by our lockers. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Grace said cautiously. “I noticed you’ve been kind of distant lately. Is everything okay?”
I sighed, realizing I couldn’t avoid the conversation any longer. “I’ve been feeling... conflicted. I want to do something for Culture Day, but I’m scared. I don’t feel like I know enough about being Sri Lankan to represent it.” Grace looked at me with understanding. “Ayomi, you don’t have to be an expert. Just share what you do know. I mean, isn’t that the point of Culture Day? To learn from each other?”
I considered this, feeling a small spark of confidence. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve been so worried about not being enough that I forgot it’s okay to learn as I go.” Grace smiled, holding and squeezing my hand. “Exactly. And you won’t be doing it alone. I’ll be there, and so will your parents and everyone else who loves you.”
That evening, I approached Amma. “Amma, will you help me with the sari? I want to wear it for Culture Day.” Her face lit up with pride. “Of course, Ayo. And we can make the watalappan together.”
The days leading up to Culture Day were a whirlwind of preparations. I practiced draping the sari with Amma, laughing at my initial clumsiness. I spent hours in the kitchen, learning to perfect the sweet coconut custard that was a family favorite. Each step of the way, I felt more connected to my heritage, more at peace with who I was.
When Culture Day finally arrived, I was nervous but determined. I walked into the school gymnasium, wearing the bright red sari Amma had lent me, and carrying a tray of watalappan. As I set up my booth, I noticed the curious looks from my classmates, but I focused on what I had prepared. Grace, who was wearing a kimono, was the first to visit my booth, grinning from ear to ear. “You look amazing, Ayomi! And don’t even get me started on the smell, this is incredible!”
Soon, a small crowd gathered around my table, asking questions about the food, the sari, and Sri Lankan culture. I found myself speaking with a confidence I hadn’t known I possessed. I told them about my family, the visits to Sri Lanka, and the blend of cultures that shaped me.
One of my classmates, Jason, took a bite of the watalappan and smiled. “This is delicious! You should bring this to every school event!” I laughed, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. “Thanks, Jason. I’m glad you like it.”
As the day went on, I realized that the fear I had carried for so long had been replaced by a sense of belonging. I wasn’t just a bridge between two worlds. I was a part of both, and that was something to be proud of.
Later that evening, as Grace and I walked home together, she turned to me and said, “See? I told you it would be great. You were amazing today, Ayomi.” I smiled, feeling the truth of her words glow on me. “You were right, Grace. I guess I just needed to accept that it’s okay to be a mix of both. I don’t have to choose.”
And with that, I felt a sense of peace settle over me. I had faced my fear, embraced my identity, and found my place, not on the bridge between two worlds, but in the unique space where they met and flourished together.
