I am my mother's daughter, my father's daughter

I've grown into my mother, into my father. And I'm definitely cool with it.

When I was a little girl, my mother used to make me cheese & chutney sandwiches for lunch. Until I was about 16 or 17, I desperately wanted to blend in, seeking conformity over identity, and thus trained myself to eat very quickly. The likelihood that someone would notice I was not eating turkey or peanut butter would decrease if I inhaled my food. One time, a dollop of mint chutney had fallen onto the cream lunch table. Someone declared it "bird poop". Others joined in vehement protest. Flushed with shame and fear, I slouched in my seat, and ultimately participated in post-crisis fall out.

My parents have always tried to give me happiness. I never told them I was embarrassed of food alleged to resemble avian fecal matter, but instead asked if I could start bringing peanut butter and jelly for lunch. My mother obliged. "Whatever will get you to eat, beta." Sometimes, however, they would fall back into their old ways. One night, we had taken my grandparents to the Country Pancake House, the legendary breakfast spot in town with pancakes the size of my face and fresh juices. My father ordered a carrot juice, his favorite, and, to my horror, pulled out a sachet of chaat masala from his jacket pocket and sprinkled some into his juice. He then passed it around to my mother, my grandparents, my sister, and by the time it came to me, I had crouched so low in my seat that my fingers grazed my Vans (it was a long time ago). My father then tapped my shoulder and told me to sit upright, warning me against bad posture.

My mother had always warned me against wasting food. While feeding me with her hands, she would remind of me of the starving children in India, the maid servants who clean my grandmothers' homes, our driver's son, "who probably makes his own crayons from plastic bags." (My mother is not a chemist.) The chronic fear of waste, the desire for survival, was thus instilled upon me at a young age. While I was trying to survive middle school by swallowing whole my chutney sandwiches, my mother would teach me about the less fortunate, tell me stories about her own impoverished childhood, and ingrained in me the sense of guilt every Indian is tasked with feeling.

I slowly grew out of my fear of standing out. I began to unpack my understanding of home, of myself (and coincidentally, bearing a unique, exotic identity soon became the new, fashionable way to conform), and realized I really liked mint chutney. My sister and I started sneaking extra airplane food into our backpacks, and hand out packaged water and rotis to hungry cows and children when we would visit our grandparents in India.

Last night, I went  with a friend to Verlaine for a fundraiser for Coalition of Asian American Children and Families. I bought my friend a kati roll for dinner, which he snacked on during the ride down to Rivington Street. It was a bit messy; chutney and corn spilled out from the roll and somehow into my hair, and so as we walked up to Verlaine, my friend suggested we toss the rest. My heart sank. "What? Why! We will finish this." I was violently shivering from the frigid city air, but took a large bite of the roll, risking flakes of potato to fall into my scarf. I then pulled apart a piece and gave it to my friend, but instead of handing it over, I accidentally shoved it in his mouth. "Um, sorry, but, the children, you know, the hungry ones," I stammered, before finishing off the rest of the roll.

My parents spent most of my childhood trying to make me happy (despite traumatizing me with their masala juices). Now that I've got my own white hairs & a legitimate back problem (which, apparently, actually is from bad posture), I finally realize how much they did for me.

We threw out the crumpled foil, and turned to walk in. "Rucha, you have some green chutney above your lip." I quickly wiped it off with the back of my hand, nervous someone would think it was bird poop. 

the capricious north wind

On January 14th, 2008, at 11:30 pm, my grandfather died in India. When my father found out my grandfather was in the hospital, my sister and I hastily threw together a few pairs of socks, his travel documents, and a white kurta, and during rush hour on a Friday evening, my mother managed to get him to JFK International Airport in under 40 minutes. For the last five years, my father has spent the 14th of January in restlessness.

The rest of the India, however, comes together to rejoice on this day. January 14th is the widely observed pagan holiday of Uttarayana, celebrating the change in direction of the north wind. It marks the onset of warm weather, of harvest, of new beginnings. People all over India, regardless of ethnicity, religion, class, gather on rooftops and terraces and fly brightly colored paper kites, pausing only to eat nut brittle and puffed rice balls. The aim of the kite flying is to actually cut another kite down. The kite string is coated with finely crushed glass, and so, at the risk of beheading passersby, strangers and friends engage in a playful duel, all fighting for the right to yell "kai po che!" ("I have cut it!"), the triumphant exclamation of victory.

To observe the fifth anniversary of my grandfather's passing, my father and I traveled to India. My father and I visited all of my grandfather's surviving siblings, my father's aunts and uncles. At each home, in between sips of guava juice, my father would tell the story of my grandfather's death. All would nod, would contribute their version of the story, and then in the uncomfortable silence, when feelings are on the verge of exposure, someone would inevitably pass us more food, and emotions would be once again successfully suppressed.

My grandfather's brothers and sisters look scarily similar to him, speak with the same kind, gravelly voice, and employ the same reassuring mannerisms. My father thirsted for their conversations of red wine, of chance encounters with European diplomats, of cricket. The resemblance of my grandfather to each was so uncanny, it was as though we visited my grandfather several times over, and yet my father would leave their homes with a deepened sense of restlessness, as we were only surrounded by vestiges, ghosts, memories of my grandfather and his mark on this world.

On the actual anniversary, my father asked his mother if she wanted to go to the temple, or wanted to do anything special. "No," she strongly responded, and then immediately turned to tell me her theory on consuming large amounts of clarified butter to help me lose weight (it's a working theory). Like most of her generation, my grandmother does not dwell on pain. She accepts it, silently bears it. Expression of emotion has come with the new generation of anguished wanderers.

My father then realized it was Uttarayana, and so we walked to my uncle's house to celebrate with him and his neighbors on his roof. Though the morning zephyrs were slightly weak, in the afternoon the north wind rages through streets, the balconies, the treetops. The sky was teeming with paper kites, as the city slowed to celebrate spring, to hope for what is to come. People shouted, cheered, clapped, usually arbitrarily, as no one actually understood the science of cutting down another's kite. I apparently successfully cut down two with one stroke, though I'm still quite weary of this statistic.

In the evening, the thickness of kites waned, and the sky gradually filled with glowing, floating Chinese lanterns. Our terrace ignited about a dozen large, colorful lanterns, the heat from the flame causing the paper globes to rise, the light causing them to glow.

The smog and city lights will never allow the city of Vadodara to become fully dark, so it instead remains a fuzzy sepia (yes, an instagram classic). In the viscous, city air hung these lanterns, thousands dotting the dark brown sky. As if stars held in suspension, the entire sky glided in unison, the harmony of the lights shattered only by fireworks on the horizon. It was panoramic; we were surrounded on all sides by a constructed, starry night.

 My father and I moved to the opposite end of the terrace. My father's eyes have been searching for the last five years. My grandfather was one of the few people who could match my father's brilliance, compassion, and strong, stubborn sense of ethics. My father can discuss in depth on an unparalleled range of topics--Justin Bieber's rise, the Moghul Empire's fall, the economy of rice in South East Asia, the implications of Federer losing his seat as No. 1. He speaks better English than anyone I've met in the English speaking world. He's also a prolific writer, only comparable to his own father, the one who had instilled in him an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. My grandfather was just as attached to the past, just as disillusioned by the present, as is my father, who lost his connection to his childhood, to a glorified past, with the death of my grandfather. My father continually seeks memories, seeks to rebuild the past, seeks ways in which death could have been avoided. He retells stories, hangs on with relish every audible expression of nostalgia by a cousin or aunt, or even a shop owner who knew my grandfather.

On the terrace that night, my father's eyes darted restlessly across the horizon. "There," he pointed, "that dark building behind that pocket of light. That was Dadaji's hospital." A red firecracker splintered the heavy silence between us, or, more accurately, the silence suffocating him.

Back home, my grandmother, clad in her new royal blue cardigan, anxiously awaited our arrival.

"So, you enjoyed?"

And we had. Though my father's heart had been wrung dry, he and I enjoyed the time we spent together. On the roof, throwing lanterns into the air, I felt closer to my father than I had in years, even though I knew his thoughts were not on the paper kites, but elsewhere. That night, he and I stayed awake until 11:30 to light a diya for my grandfather. We bowed our heads in reflection, his hands held in prayer, mine clutched clumsily in front of me, and together we stood for several minutes. Shortly thereafter, I went to bed, but my father stayed awake till the flame burned out.

The next morning, the ground was littered with lifeless, torn paper kites, futile save for the memories they evoked of a glorious day in January.

the Family Circus

I wish I were Beaver Cleaver. I want a white picket fence and perfectly round pancakes and a family that functions completely in synch.

The problem is, I hate fences, perfectly shaped food terrifies me, and my family seems to inevitably collide and implode, almost as if in competition with the Higgs Field.

 

Twelve hours ago I returned from a two-week trip to India, where I partook in nuptial celebrations in various cities and a whirlwind tour of South India. I woke up at four this morning with a cold, a sore throat, and that dreadful feeling of adrenaline receding from my core.

(So, the sun has not even come up yet, but I'm now drinking my second cup of Madras coffee, imported from the source.)






After several days of truly fun festivities for my cousin's wedding in Mumbai, my family was to ship out to Gujarat, to prepare for another wedding. My mother, her two sisters and their husbands, my cousin, my grandparents, and my mother's aunt were going to take a train out of Bombay.

Our train was at 6:50 in the morning, but given that we were travelling with about two carloads of baggage and three elderly folks, we decided to leave the place at which we stayed at 5:30 in the morning. The ride was ten minutes.

My mother's cousins had driven us to the station. After they parked, we faced our first obstacle: crossing the street. With a sense of romantic adventure, we trekked across the highway, avoiding impassive cows, unrelenting motorists, and people standing in the middle of the road for no apparent reason, though I presumed each person to be waiting for Godot.

We survived. Our entourage attracted stares and whistles, as we huddled around fourteen bags at the entrance of the station, some of us rubbing sore muscles, some of us rubbing tired eyes, some of us rubbing our fanny packs and visors. My mother's aunt used her cane to fend off stray dogs. I still had not had a single cup of coffee.

We soon found out our platform was on the other end of the station. We had to walk down two flights of stairs, cross the station underground, then walk back another flight of stairs, and progress to the end of the tracks. There were hundreds of people crowding the station; rush hour had conveniently started about three hours earlier that morning. I briefly glanced up at the clouds, in a futile attempt to seek some sort of divine inspiration. As usual, I found nothing particularly revelatory in the skies, so instead scratched a new mosquito bite in my left armpit. Without caffeine or deus ex machina, I lost the thrill of romantic treks through the rough, wild terrain of the Indian train stations, and so picked up four heavy pieces of luggage and embarked upon the pilgrimage to Platform 7.

Some of us were tasked to escort my grandparents and great aunt. I had heard some commotion behind me after walking down the second flight of stairs, but assumed it was the usual buzz of a Bombay train platform. As soon as I reached the top step, I set my bags down for a small break. I glanced over my shoulder and saw my mother and her sister yelling at my grandfather, who unabashedly forged ahead with his lavendar napsack.

My mother motioned to me. "Ruch! Please get the backpack from nanaji."

I ran back down the steps and grabbed the lavendar napsack. My grandfather looked back up at me. His grip tightened. "No, beta, no problem, I have it." I tried again, but he pushed me away. I skipped back up the steps. My mother glared at me.

"Ruch! Please help your grandfather!"

"Ma, he said--"

My mother threw her hands in frustration. I was not completely sure what had spurred on her anger, but I decided to keep a 3-foot radius around her.

My  grandmother and my mother's aunt were slowly making there way up the stairs. My mother's two sisters were walking with them, providing them with support up the slippery staircase (I don't know why everything in India is perpetually wet, despite an alleged water shortage).

My uncle told me he and some of my mother's cousins were going to go ahead and make sure the bags reached our platform. He told me to help out my mother.

Suffering a sort of dizzy spell, I turned around once again to my mother, who at this point was cursing in the train station. My grandfather was still holding his lavendar napsack. My aunt was hunched over trying to pry his fingers from the bag. I was not sure with what I was to assist, so I stood back and waited. All of a sudden, my mother and aunt burst into tears.

My grandfather smiled at me and walked on with his lavendar bag. I walked over to my mother, and put a reassuring (though I did not know for what I was providing consolation) hand on her shoulder. She waved me away. I took her bags from her, and added it to my increasing pile of luggage. I trudged on alone, swaying from the weight of everyone's bags and emotions.

My grandmother and my mother's aunt were still slowly and steadily making progress behind my bellowing mother. My grandfather was walking a few feet to the left of me, in utter contentment. My uncle and my mother's cousins were all up front. I walked alone, through the crowds and the dogs and the strategically placed trash cans. Twice, I almost fell into the train tracks, and almost four times I almost fell on my face, as those originally waiting for Godot suddenly jolted awake, and frenetically pushed through me, despite the clear path two inches to the left of me, and trampled me in their journey to nowhere.

Flustered by my near death experiences, I turned to find my mother, who was now heaving sobs with my aunt. I will still unsure of the source of anguish, so I increased my 3-foot radius to about 6-feet, and continued.

We finally all reached Platform 7. My grandfather was still clutching his lavendar bag and telling one of my uncles about the effects of Mumbai traffic on the socioeconomic development of the city. My aunts huddled around their cousin.

"Has he told you he just had surgery? He shouldn't be carrying bags."

Ah, the source. It was fear, worry, and more than worry, the pain of seeing someone desperately hold on to something that was slipping away.

Or, everyone was just a bit cranky and hungry.

My mother's cousin then shared stories of his father's obstinacy in the last few years of his life. He started to tear. My mother and all her sisters began crying with a renewed gusto. I walked over to my cousin. "Ugh, so much drama! I wish we could postpone the crying till after 9 in the morning."

My cousin was playing fruit ninja on his blackberry. "What? Who's crying?"

In about twenty five minutes, the train rolled into the platform. As it slowed, I felt some naan turned over at the base of my stomach. We had to get all the luggage and relatives onto the train in the five minutes that the train stopped.

My cousin and I went in first. Our uncles threw heavy bags to us and we were to catch them, or at least allow our paneer-bellies to soften the fall. My grandparents and great aunt were escorted into the train amid hundreds of other passengers, all of whom were also tossing bags onto the train.

The train lurched forward. Some straggling youths ran and jumped onto the train as it left the platform. My cousin and I divvied up the luggage. Refreshments were being served, so we maneuvered our luggage around the narrow aisles and wide food carts.

Finally, after having ensured all people and luggage were accounted for, we were able to fall into our seats, completely caving to this insurmountable exhaustion. I closed my eyes.

My mother tapped me hard. "Where's Ma and Papa? I want to go see them." I looked over at my mother, who was still sobbing. With the half ounce of energy I had left, I got up from the welcome seat and showed her to end of the car. My grandmother and grandfather were happily munching on biscuits and sipping their tea. My grandmother looked at my mother, and then looked back at me. "What's her problem?"

My mother squeezed my grandfather's hands, in a desperate compassion. My grandfather looked up at my mother. "Do you have my lavendar bag?"