As April blooms, the Thai New Year arrives with the vibrant splash of the Songkran Festival. The air hums with laughter and the rhythmic thwack of water being thrown, a joyful sight and sound under bright, sun-drenched skies. Sweet jasmine garlands scent the air, mingled with the fresh, clean spray of water trickling over warm skin. While most foreigners know Songkran for its gigantic city-wide water fights, the playful splashing in the streets, though joyful, doesn’t fully define the festival.
Songkran, the Thais’ New Year’s Day, is a time to cleanse oneself of the sins and luck accumulated over the year gone by, make resolutions to turn over a new leaf, and pay obeisance to senior members of one’s family or community.
Every year, I get to take part in Rod Nam Dum Hua, the pouring of scented water onto the palms and feet of our parents and other respected elders. The water has jasmine and rose petals. The scent of that water reminds me of the gentle flow as it pours. Washing my elderly relatives’ hands with cold water triggers latent emotions.
Tears are mixed with the jasmine water. In that simple act, I am not an American writer or a successful immigrant. I am simply a child returning to the source. The cool water carries away the guilt I carried for leaving: the missed birthdays, holidays, and funerals, and heals the divide. In the streets, the celebration continues. Total strangers approach me, smearing white chalk mixed with traditional Thai perfume (nam ob) on my cheeks and pouring water over my shoulders with smiles.
“Sawasdee Pi Mai,” they said. Happy New Year to you. No one asked how long I was gone, and I didn’t explain why. Focusing on the present, the calendar remains indifferent to the passing years. The overwhelming joy of being reunited after such a long time washed over me, a wave of warmth that soothed my very soul. The vibrant colors of Thailand, a feast for the eyes, are a tangible bridge connecting my American life with my Thai spirit.
Songkran is all about being present in the moments I had so often only written about. Ambition and sacrifice were what forced me to leave these shores 54 years ago. The hunger to want to grow, to be somebody, and to prove myself made me board the plane. I have written in abundance on the price of this ambition.
Songkran taught me another truth. Home isn’t just where you are from; it is the pull at your heart when what you are doing connects with who you were, but doesn’t trap you there. Home is being able to hold the American Dream and the Thai spirit in one hand each, and the water of that festival pours into both glasses from a single cup.
The festival eventually ended, and the streets dried. The chalk washed off my face, but the emotional shift remained permanently etched into my spirit.
Returning for Songkran after 54 years isn’t about reclaiming a lost past. It is about integrating all the fragmented pieces of my identity, leaving behind the feeling of being torn between two continents. I am a product of both. The immigrant journey never truly ends, but it reaches moments of profound peace.