Who am I when I'm gone?

During five months of travel through Southern India, people often asked where my family was. It’s unusual to see a woman navigating life alone, and surprised locals always wanted to pin me down.

“Where is your husband?” is a question I faced constantly.

When I answered that I am not married, the natural follow-up was, “Where are your parents?”

I’d answer that they are both in America, but they do not live together.

“Which do you live with?”

“Neither. I live by myself.”

Shock. “By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“No, I’m an only child.”

“Just you?” This was always said in a tone of disbelief. What parent could ever be happy with such a slim offering?

“Just me.”

Further questions about religion (none), occupation (none), and my travel route (totally unplanned) yielded similarly unsatisfactory answers.

At first, I found their surprise amusing, but after awhile, the constant repetition of these unanswerable questions began to make me feel I didn't quite exist. In India, a person without a family, a home, a job, a faith, or a goal is no one at all.

But I am still here.