On August 15, 1947, my father George Mayer celebrated India’s freedom from 300 years of British colonial rule by flying kites with his friends off Howrah Bridge, over the Hooghly River in Kolkata.

Kites in India are made by delicately attaching colorful tissue paper to dry reeds using lehi, a glue made from boiled white flour. Thin kite strings are made with strong cotton fiber called manja, wrapped tightly around a decorated spindle reel or laddi. As kids taking part in a neighborhood kite fight, we would coat the first few yards of manja with powdered glass, making it easier to “cut” an enemy kite by slicing through their line. We’d send the vanquished kite floating across rooftops, chased by throngs of children.

Once a kite is airborne, flying it requires farsightedness and a complete disregard for the skin on your hands. I learned the art of kite flying alongside my sisters at the hands of our Chowrungee-born father. The skill lies in maintaining a delicate balance between tension and slack. When an enemy kite approaches, go taut to signal engagement and draw it in. Once your foe is in striking range, slack off to force an attack. Then pounce! Reel in the encrusted manja to slice the enemy’s string—a clean cut across its jugular.

Democratic presidential nominee Kamala Harris, former South Carolina governor and former U.N. ambassador Nikki Haley, and U.S. Rep. Ro Khanna are Indian Americans at the top of American politics today. They fly different political kites—a mix of colorful stances cutting across the political aisle, engaged in different parts of our government. But they all are the children and grandchildren of people born under British colonial rule who fought for India’s freedom.

Their not-so-distant ancestors in all probability joined my father in flying kites on that August day in 1947. I would guess that they also joined him in passing along treasured lessons about maneuvering kites, steadfastness and drive, democracy and progressivism. This shared political heritage, imbibed from freedom fighter grandparents, inarguably shapes these Indian American political superstars’ visions for America today, even as they vary.

Kamala Harris has spoken of long morning walks on the beach in Chennai with her maternal grandfather, Painganadu Venkataraman “P. V.” Gopalan, “where he would discuss the importance of fighting for equality and fighting corruption.” They talked about principles of democracy, freedom, and equality. Those walks “really planted something in my mind and created a commitment in me,” she recalled in a recent post online. It “led me where I am today.”

Gopalan’s overt support shaped more than Harris’ politics. In the late 1950s, it would have been unheard of for a young Tamil woman to make her own way in the West, as Harris’ mother did when she emigrated to the United States to study medicine. Shyamala Gopalan Harris lived other taboos, too: marrying outside her caste, raising her daughters as a divorced mother. In that era, a father’s acceptance made all the difference—none of this would have been possible without it.

Gopalan was about 15 years older than my father. Both men would have been in the prime of their lives during the final throes of the British Empire. Gopalan was from Thulasendrapuram, a tiny village in the southern Indian rice-growing region of Thanjavur, a place that has witnessed political upheaval for millennia. Some of India’s most beautifully preserved ancient and medieval temples stand in this deeply spiritual place; many remain active sites of worship.

Most people in Thanjavur are Hindu Tamils, but they exist in relative harmony with neighbors sharing many religious traditions. The Church of Our Lady of Vailankanni, a Christian pilgrimage site renowned for miraculous feats of healing spanning hundreds of years, lies just 40 miles east of Gopalan’s village, toward the Bay of Bengal. The ancient Brihadeeshwara Temple also contains ancient Buddhist relics.  When I listen to Kamala Harris speak of her mother, “a brown woman with an accent,” I think about how Shyamala embarked on her “unlikely journey” from this place steeped in respect for different belief systems.

Nikki Haley’s life story is similarly familiar. Haley’s paternal grandfather served in the British colonial army, she writes in her autobiography, and her mother, Raj Randhawa, “lived in a large six-story house in the shadow of the Golden Temple, the holiest shrine in the Sikh religion,” in Amritsar, Punjab. Nearby was Jallianwala Bagh, a garden and popular gathering place with a deep, open well that quenched the thirst of locals, travelers, and pilgrims.

The garden is surrounded by high walls and densely packed housing tenements, with only one narrow passage for access. It was also the site of a notorious massacre on April 13, 1919. On that day, a crowd of around 10,000 gathered, some to protest a draconian British law criminalizing anti-government sentiment, many for the start of the spring festival of baisakhi. An overzealous British officer, nervous about the gathering, commanded his troops to seal the gate and open fire on the unarmed crowd. Hundreds were shot dead. Others perished when they jumped into the well to avoid the hail of bullets.

Gunshot marks on the walls of Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar, India from the massacre on April 13, 1919. Photo by Moira Shourie.

The Jallianwala Bagh massacre was a grotesque event that marked a turning point in India’s struggle against the British. Laying bare the empire’s barbaric means of subjugation, it galvanized the freedom movement and inspired Mahatma Gandhi to launch the Non-Cooperation Movement that exhorted Indians to lay down their tools and not contribute to the economy in a universal labor strike.

I have stood in that garden and pushed my way through its narrow gate—as has Haley, who visited the grounds in 2014 to honor those who died. Despite pressures from hardline populists, Haley has been steadfast in removing symbols of Confederate power, perhaps because they echo the violence that plagued her own mother’s life in Amritsar. I wonder how else this ghastly episode of colonial violence might have shaped Haley’s views on democracy and how people rise up to fight for it.

India’s struggle for independence also molded Ro Khanna’s grandfather Amarnath Vidyalankar. Active in Gandhi’s Quit India Movement, which accelerated Britain’s formal retreat from India, Vidyalankar endured two stints in jail for his actions. He sought to uplift Harijans or untouchables—people at the bottom of the caste system—and founded schools in rural regions for farmers and their families.

He also went on to serve as personal secretary to Lala Lajpat Rai, a key architect of India’s independence who traveled to the U.S. to meet civil rights leaders in 1916. I grew up next door to Lajpat Bhawan, the headquarters of Rai’s Servants of the People Society, formed to instill a sense of public service through wellness and employment programs. My sisters and I went there to buy freshly ground spices, enjoy the street food stalls in the fairs or melas they hosted, and to watch daily outdoor yoga classes where retirees practiced laughter therapy.

Working in such close proximity to Lala Lajpat Rai, I can’t help but believe Khanna’s grandfather imbibed the notion that extreme wealth should benefit the larger community. Today, Khanna represents one of the nation’s wealthiest congressional districts—Silicon Valley, home to tech companies that have a combined market capitalization of over $14 trillion—but he also champions progressive causes like affordable childcare and free public college. Khanna’s politics are likely influenced by his grandfather’s ideals.

Freedom and democracy are not distant concepts to this generation of Indian American politicians, but a living legacy passed down by loved ones who sowed the seeds with their own hands. Harris, Haley, and Khanna understand that a striking kite stands out in a crowded sky. They also understand that a good kite flier must be sharp and ready to cut their losses, must be resilient and able to try and try again, must be able to maneuver around other kites, and must adapt to changing conditions. Much like a good politician.

Harris, Haley, and Khanna are an inter-generational string—manja—giving flight to their versions of these principles of democracy. They should fly their kite not only in celebration but as a banner of freedom, soaring through unknowable skies.