The Migratory Melancholia of the ‘Dependent Spouse’

Of all the personal labels I’ve subscribed to while recently working out the plurality of my identity, a tiny alphanumeric one has emerged as the most potent — H4.

This seemingly benign title is the name of my visa category in the United States. Around 18 months ago, I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area from India’s financial capital, Mumbai. To say I grew up there sounds a touch reductive; it’s where I lived, learned and loved for 37 years.

I moved for love. A whirlwind, cross-continental romance that began on Bumble during the pandemic ended in wedding vows that brought me to America in the winter of 2022. That’s when I became an “H4 wife,” a term used for newlywed spouses, typically brides, who come to the country on a “dependent visa,” which means their partner holds a more dignified employment-based visa called the H1.

I used to think “non-resident alien” was the weirdest official nomenclature in America, but “dependent spouse” is worse.

Lest anyone think this is a garden variety sob story, let me clarify that I live a privileged life. In fact, the first time I used the word “traumatized” to describe my psychological state after moving to Silicon Valley, my husband balked and reminded me that I was sitting on a $1,500 couch and drinking gourmet Colombian coffee. But the tears still rolled down my face.

The struggle to reorient — socially, professionally, practically — in a new country is real. The story of the asylum-seeking refugee who flees economic hardship, political anarchy or religious persecution in their home country is well documented, as it should be. New York-based author and journalism professor Suketu Mehta writes about immigration as reparation for colonialism in his fabulous book This Land Is My Land, which passionately advocates for immigrants who fight the odds to come to the United States in search of a better life, and devote their waking hours to earning money for their struggling families back home.

Who writes of the trauma of the highly educated, upper-middle class legal immigrant who kisses family and friends goodbye, unplugs a career and moves of their own volition, only to realize that the real journey begins after the plane lands on the tarmac? Who documents the disillusionment of the financially stable, travel-savvy global citizen, who, passport in hand, marches across airports in a quest for the best life they can gift themselves? Who chronicles my — our — brand of immigration?

Let me try. What is commonly misinterpreted as homesickness or casually dismissed as the stress of a new relationship — or as Indians like to say, “adjustment issues” — is in fact a cluster of emotions including frustration, anxiousness, low self-esteem, confusion, self-doubt, loneliness, an identity crisis and a sense of pervasive sadness.

Collectively, this dull mood state is different in quality from depression or anxiety disorder, both far more debilitating conditions. Nonetheless, the sub-clinical disquietude of the contemporary settler is what I have come to call “migratory melancholia.”

The concept of emotion clusters has been explored indifferent contexts. British Psychologist Kevin Dutton, in his book The Wisdom Of Psychopaths, writes about traits that comprise the psychopathic personality — fearlessness, ruthlessness, confidence, focus, charm, lack of conscience and calmness under pressure.

The same logic of clusters, with different emotions, can be applied to migratory melancholia. It could be years before this depressive subset finds room in mental health literature. But change can start sooner. I’d like people experiencing post-migration blues to recognize the signs and know that they are not alone.

Every immigrant feels their story is unique; that they are somehow different from the hundreds of thousands of others who risk leaving home for their version of the American dream, be it professional, educational, financial or, as in my case, romantic. And while their individual details may be unique, we’re still united in movement, and united in spirit.

On my way from Mumbai to San Francisco, there was a seven-hour layover in Dubai. While waiting, I swapped stories with some fellow passengers, one of them a Bangladeshi man from the town of Sylhet who has made New York his home. We had neither coast in common nor mother tongue, but were united in the American immigrant experience.

We each grumbled about the lengthy documentation involved in securing, then renewing, then stamping, and then re-renewing our respective visas, and the arduous path to officially belonging here. But that is just paperwork, he said, for America is “here” — pointing to his head with one hand and his heart with another.

Ashwini Gangal is a Mumbai-bred, California-based journalist, hopelessly in love with the written word. She is the author of two chapbooks, ‘Hormonal House’ and ‘Yersinia Pestis.’