The Nani-Nana Gap: Love Longing and FaceTime Calls
Every Sunday evening, like clockwork, a FaceTime call connects a kitchen in New Jersey to a veranda in Kanpur. On one end, a young child with a reluctant smile, coaxed into saying a few words. On the other, a Nani adjusting her chunni, telling the child to “speak in Hindi, beta,” while a Nana peers into the camera, squinting to make sense of the image. What was once a living room filled with giggles, bedtime stories, and bowls of nimbu pani is now a scheduled video call. It’s not a tragedy. It’s just how things are. But in between the virtual hugs and frozen screens lies something quiet and tender: the emotional distance between grandparents and grandchildren, shaped not by love, but by geography, time zones, and a different kind of upbringing. A Relationship Without Everydayness Grandparents in India often imagine their role through routine: walking their grandchild to school, feeding them with their hands, or offering unsolicited but affectionate advice. They are used to being present — not as occasional guests, but as anchors in a child’s life. But when families move abroad, that presence becomes pixelated. The relationship is preserved, yes — through photos, voice notes, and family WhatsApp groups — but it lacks the easy familiarity that only physical proximity can provide. There’s no shared rhythm of life, no real-time corrections, no impromptu visits, no scoldings laced with affection. The love doesn’t reduce. But the language of that love changes. Children raised abroad often grow up hearing their parents speak fondly of their own childhoods: of growing up in multigenerational households, of sleeping beside their grandparents, of being shaped by their values. But for many of these children, their own experience is reduced to a once-a-year visit to India — an experience filled with warmth, yes, but also formality. Some don’t speak the same language fluently. Some feel awkward initiating conversation. And some only associate their Nani or Nana with the festival season, gifts, and that one beloved food item they always make. To the grandchild, the relationship often feels ceremonial. To the grandparent, it feels distant. Both care. Neither knows how to bridge the silence. Technology is a Band-Aid, Not a Bridge Video calls are helpful. They let grandparents watch their grandkids grow, listen to stories, offer blessings. But they also come with dropped connections, forced smiles, and distracted children more eager to return to their game than answer a grandparent’s question. A two-minute “Hi, Nani” isn’t a conversation. It’s a formality. And over time, that formality can start to feel like a favor. Grandparents adapt. They learn how to swipe, how to use emojis, how to send voice notes. But for many, it’s less about mastering the tech and more about learning to live with a new kind of longing — one that’s shaped by acceptance, not absence. Often, it’s the parents — the children of these grandparents — who act as translators. Not just between languages, but between emotional worlds. They remind their children to wave, to ask questions, to say “I miss you” even when they might not fully feel it yet. They nudge their own parents to not feel hurt if the call was short or if the child seemed distracted. In doing so, they carry a quiet burden — of making two generations feel connected when their lives rarely overlap. What Gets Lost — and What Remains There is a loss here. Of what could have been. Of a relationship that might have been more organic if shaped by proximity, not planning. Of stories that might have been told over dinner, not squeezed into a Sunday evening call. But there’s also something that remains. A kind of quiet resilience. A love that tries, even when it fumbles. A grandparent who waits patiently for a child to say one more word. A child who may not fully grasp the depth of this relationship yet — but who, one day, might. And in that gap — between the love that is felt and the love that is fully expressed — lies the modern diaspora's most tender relationship
