May Day

It's easy to take New York City for granted. For that matter, it's not only easy, but common, to take your home for granted, to forget that what you have in your hands at a single moment is ephemeral. 

I've never been on the IKEA water taxi. I've never eaten at the Central Park Boathouse Restaurant or Cafe, Vanessa's Dumplings, or Beauty & Essex. When I ventured to the top of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, I was sleepy, cranky, and still drank from juice boxes. I haven't yet explored the Cloisters, the Bodies Exhibit, or the Museum of Sex. I have never taken an improv class and I don't understand dim sum. I don't know the names of buildings in Manhattan, and still get confused about the geography of Brooklyn.

Still, I consider New York City my home. I have always been here, and assumed my life was of permanence, despite desperately yearning change. I thus always looked to tomorrow. There was always tomorrow to go to Alta, tomorrow to go to Basement Bhangra, tomorrow to go to trannie bingo at the Bowery Poetry Club.

But all of a sudden, there is no tomorrow. The wind is knocked out of me, I'm gasping for air, I'm leaving New York City. In thirty days, I bid farewell to family, friends, a sense of familiarity. I'm departing from my youth, from the place in which I both found and lost myself, from the moments I can not recapture once I set foot over the threshold.

I am compelled by an overwhelming sense of sadness, of pain, to wake up. I want to see and smell and touch and fall in love with and hate every inch of the city, till I want to have nightmares about "Post No Bills" and Dan Smith (from whom I have not learned the guitar, something else to add to my list).

Grimaldi's, exalted as the best pizzeria in New York City, is on the aforementioned list of things I postponed for tomorrow, a day which never came to pass, until today. To commemorate the beginning of the end, I decided to finally catch up with the scores of tourists who appreciate the transience of the city more than I do. I went to Grimaldi's.

Now, I should preface this monumental event. After several fears that the Grimaldi's in DUMBO would shut down, the owner opened a new branch in Kips Bay. I thus did not try Grimaldi's from the original coal fired oven, but it's newer counterpart. Whatever, baby steps.

The block surrounding Grimaldi's is infused with the welcome, delicious fragrance of slightly salty mozzarella cheese melting on hot, tangy tomato sauce. We walked into the restaurant, which, as my companion described, only conducted a "soft opening," and so its phone number was only listed on Post-its on the counter, its patrons were but a few, scattered hungry souls, and its entrance sign was hastily plastered on top of the sign from the previous store it replaced.

The honesty of the [new branch of the] infamous pizza spot was refreshing. Like the authentic inhabitants of this island, the new Grimaldi's did not pretend to be what it was not, nor did it seduce us with a saccharine facade, a fake smile. Rather, we were drawn by the tantalizing smells, without hesitation ordered our pizza, and without so much as a nod acknowledging the relationship between pizza maker and pizza taker, we took the food out, where we could enjoy a king's feast in a Manhattan dorm room.

Grimaldi's, NYC

As is the norm for New York City pizza, the crust was the best part of the slice. Like my father, I prefer most things crisp--crisp personalities, crisp clothing, crisp pizza crusts. In this case, the crust was a bit soft, but it was still soulful, still strong, without ambiguity or pretense. Like those locals who devour it, the pizza feigned nothing, exposing its own flaws and harsh truths to the vagaries of a cold, aloof universe, at the risk of pain, of loneliness, of anguish. The pizza might not have been the best I ever had (Lombardi's might win this one), but it was more than good enough. It was satisfaction. It was home.

End of Day 1

my mother, not yet 50, but so damn close.

Today is my mother's makeshift birthday. She's a Leap Day baby, and so we've arbitrarily picked February 28th to be the day of celebration, not March 1st. Every year, I write my mother a birthday letter. Sometimes it's 48 things I love about her, sometimes it's reflections on 40, sometimes it's just an overwhelming amount of affection, difficult to convey in writing.

And every year she cries, a stable indicator of the quality of the letter.

So, with the maternal spirit of an Indian woman, my mother now has high expectations--not of me, but of my birthday letter, specifically. 

It seems quite easy, I suppose, to express in writing how I feel about my mother. She's my best friend, the last piece of my jigsaw puzzle. She's the funniest and most vibrant of all women in my life, and she also endearingly cries every ten minutes (I'm now convinced it's overactive tear ducts, not emotions). I tell her more things than most children should tell their parents, and I look to her not only for wisdom, for counsel, for advice, but for solace. I should be able to easily convey my feelings about my mother, wish her happy birthday, and then eat her slice of cake (she hates cake, so we get to have our cake and eat hers, too).

Unfortunately, it's just not that easy. The reality is, I legitimately perspire come February 27 (I don't do time management), and the backs of my eyeballs get sore because my brain twists and turns and the nerves in my spine resemble some sort of deplorable rat king. I always know what I want to say; I just never know how to say it.

This year, I stayed at the office a few late nights to think. 

The last year was difficult for the Desai's, and, ultimately, incredibly rewarding. Through it all, my mother remained strong, inspiring, and pushed us through to the next steps of our lives. But it was too cliché, I thought, to tell my mother how her fortitude and resilience helped me survive, to stay afloat, that without her reassuring hand on my head, I'd have probably crumbled.

I deleted that document and started again.

My mother is embarking on new professional adventures in her life. It's motivating to see a woman of her age, almost fifty, change her career and actively take charge of her own happiness. I don't do it at 24. I'm unhappy, and I let myself be, hoping only for the reprise of Friday evening. My mother, on the other hand, looks forward to every day, eager to come home and drink tea with my father, to gossip about Jennifer Lawrence with my little sister. She never fears aging because she's actually achieved contentment, and she actually loves her life more as it comes to pass every day. But, I thought, it was probably a bit trite to speak of her optimism. Everyone does that.

I then closed the document (without saving), and turned to pen and paper.

There was a period of time this year when I decided to be angry with my mother. It was the worst couple of days (read: hours) in my life. My mother has an inimitably open, porous heart. Except for the people who have hurt her family, my mother genuinely loves everyone. She has the ability to draw people, all people, from a diversity of backgrounds, perspectives, colors. She's magnetic. (My friends only stay friends with me so they can hang out with her. And I'd do the same.) And so, it's impossible to stay angry with her; when I was upset with my mother I would tell her why I was unhappy with her, and talk to her every day about my giving her the silent treatment. She's the only one in whom I can fully confide, even if I swear myself to silence.

It was too painful for a birthday letter. I didn't want to bring up a bad mood of mine. I crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the trash with my empty solo coffee cups.

Panicked, I finally wrote my mother an acrostic poem, a "roses are red" poem, and bought her a humorous Hallmark card. When I walked through the door last weekend, my mother hugged me, told me to eat, and then put her hands on her hips expectantly.

"Um, what? I'm eating as much as I can. I'll get fat, I promise."

"No, beta. I want my letter. Where is my letter?"

With hands shaking, I gave her the Hallmark card. She read it, smiled, and said, "thank you, beta." She didn't cry.

My mother's almost fifty. I haven't yet mastered the art of expressing my love and affection for her, but I'll drink to another fifty years so I can try.

Happy birthday, young lady.

Murphy's Law

Everyone in our office was excited for President's Day weekend. It was a welcome break in the middle of an onerous and frigid February, and Valentine's Day candy was on sale at Duane Reade.

I was not excited. I was working that weekend. I had to go to Jersey to get my car, drive to Albany, then drive to Ithaca for personal matters.

I had not driven since my back injury.

And now I was binge-driving.

On Friday evening, we received notice that we could head out slightly early. As I was heading to New Jersey, I ran around the office, tripping on wires, stuffing my letters in envelopes, talking to folks on my headset (I looked like I was running around screaming "ma'am"), and still could not manage to leave before 6. It began pouring rain when I stepped outside, and I lugged my bags and spare shoes to the corner, where I hailed a cab. It took one hour to get to Penn Station, usually a fifteen minute ride. I almost slammed into a small child when I opened the cab door, threw a handful of bills into the front seat, and ran to the ticket guichet, where I stood on line for forty minutes.

Apparently, Jersey has become a choice travel destination.

Finally home, and after bonding with my parents (monthly ritual) for a few hours, I decided to look up directions to the convention center that was hosting the Congressional Black Caucus, the event I was to attend. Literally at the 11th hour (it was close to 11 pm), I discovered that this place had no street address. I emailed some colleagues late at night, and prayed (desperate times call for desperate measures) that someone would hear my pleas for help. I woke up the next morning to no new emails. I was to drive to Albany on a prayer.

I set off with a hearty breakfast of eggs and fruit, and after about 15 minutes immediately realized I was lacking coffee. I felt inebriated by the dearth of caffeine, but was afraid to be late (especially since I had no idea of my destination). I drove in misery, and three hours later, after finally figuring out the address and getting lost and seeing a mirage of coffee fields, I made it to the convention center. I strategically parked far from the entrance, noticed the number "3" on the wall, and walked briskly to the convention. I was on time.

The only coffee available was that of McDonald's.

After I cried to members of the caucus, passersby, and into my phone, I did my job (and spilled McDonald's coffee on my grey blazer).

My friend was coming to Ithaca with me, and so I was to pick him up from the Bolt bus stop after my event. By that time, I was without solid coffee, starving, and shivering (the coffee on my suit never seemed to dry) and thus in a horrendous mood. I was to drive some of my colleagues back to their hotel, and so we headed towards the parking garage. There were four different levels. "Rucha, where to?"

I blanched. "Um, try 3."

We went down to 3. Each level was also split in half, and so I checked the north section, where I was pretty certain I had parked, and looked for my car (it's actually Manu's car, so losing it was even more frightening). It was nowhere to be seen. I ran back to the elevator, while one of our directors wearing painful high heels limped behind me, and I tried all the other floors. The car was just not there. My team ran behind me as I frantically searched for the silver Toyota. I feared I imagined driving into the parking lot, since I had become weak from the lack of caffeine, and double checked my pockets to make sure I had the parking pass.

I was close to tears (no, really, I was just that hungry). I ran back to level 3, and searched again. And there, in a spot I may have (definitely) overlooked when I searched the first time, I found my car. I breached the professional code of conduct and jumped into the embrace of my colleague.

After dropping off and picking up and driving around aimlessly to discover Albany (during which time there were fears my iPad may have shattered, a stuffed rat Beanie Baby was actually real, and I had pneumonia or lung cancer), I was ready to go to bed. And then my parents called me. "Beta, your insurance expires at midnight tonight. As of tomorrow, you have no insurance. Don't worry though."

Tomorrow came. Too scared to drive four hours to Ithaca, my friend and I went to brunch in Albany, instead. To make up for the previous day, I nervously chugged four cups of coffee, and packed up half of my potatoes and tofu scramble. As I was blowing bubbles into my water, in successful attempts to delay getting back on the road, my father called and confirmed that the insurance snafu had been resolved. (Daddy to the rescue, again.)

My father's parting words were, "Even though this is resolved, the card in your car is still outdated, so please please please adhere to speed limits, watch the road, and don't do anything crazy." I scoffed (I never do anything crazy), said good bye, and hung up the phone.

In two hours, I was pulled over for a speeding ticket.

I have never in my life received a speeding ticket; in fact, I have never in my life gone over the speed limit. I'm usually under. I'm that slow driver everyone abhors. I'm the one who gives women and Asian drivers a bad name. It's me. But, the windy roads upstate rapidly alternated between 55 mph and 30 mph, and I was usually going 40 (much to the dismay of the growing queue of cars behind me). As I hit the brakes to slow to 30, the cop, who was patiently waiting for me right next to the speed limit sign, turned on his lights and pulled me over.

I started blubbering. And then I proactively handed him my expired insurance card. "Sir, hold on, do you need this?"

My friend wanted to take the wheel for the rest of the drive (something about my "emotional instability") but I instead had him shout out the changes in speed limit just in case I didn't notice. (And then I got angry about the subsequent backseat driving).

I was still in disarray when we stopped for gas. I noticed a car wash in the back of the station, and, because I was so stressed out, I decided to treat myself with a traditional car wash (I don't do manicures). I had never before been in one, and always wanted to since I was a little girl, when I would watch Corrina, Corrina with my mother.

We drove the sparkling car to Ithaca, where we first stopped at Buttermilk Falls. It was incredibly silent, absolutely still. It was so cold in Ithaca that the water was at a stand still, hanging in mid-air like long icicles barely reaching the dense pool of floating ice below. There was no sound of babbling brooks or thunderous falls or children splashing, as everything had frozen into tranquility. We heard only the sounds of silence.

We quietly walked back to the car, which, we discovered, also froze into tranquility. Some of the water from the car wash must not have dried before we got back on the road, and so the doors and trunk were frozen shut. We manually pried everything open with our numb fingers, and then clambered back into the frigid car for some semblance of warmth. I ate cold tofu scramble leftovers to warm my insides, and when that didn't work, stuck my hands under my butt.

I got lost several times on my drive home, the day after. For three hours, there was nothing on the radio but Taylor Swift, and so I became disoriented and drove off the highway several times, in search of other radio towers. With some luck and Dunkin Donuts coffee (it makes a difference), I managed to get myself back to New Jersey, where my mother greeted me with questions of my mortality. "Beta, you look terrible. You look like you're dying. Eat. No, eat more."

And so I ate. And I warmed. And amid the conversation and my loud chewing, I desperately sought that moment of tranquility, the sounds of silence that rendered immobile the waterfall and the frenzy and the ennui.  And I couldn't find it.

fall from grace

I woke up to a text from my mother this morning. She warned me of icy, slippery roads. I smiled, accustomed to her anxiety for my well-being, and then forgot about her message as I hurriedly put on mismatched socks for the office.

And then I fell down.

(Per usual, my mother's fears were all but unfounded.)

I was having a rough day before the fall. I had come to work without make up, with a stomach ache, and in desperate need of chapstick. I found out the Pope was resigning because of waning mental energy, and felt even more disenchanted with 9-6 oblivion. I stepped outside to buy snacks (I can honestly say that I eat my feelings), and on my way back to the office, I slipped on ice and fell to my side, throwing out my left hand to catch my fall. More than pain, I was flushed with embarrassment. Some people stopped, others walked by. I quickly stood up and walked briskly back into my building, hiding my scratched up, gravel-ridden left hand into my pocket.

While I wished to burn this memory into obscurity, I have a moral obligation, a responsibility to clumsy ladies everywhere, to tell and retell the story of my antics. This is not the first time I have fallen, and nor will it be my last. In the fourth grade, I fell in the gymnasium during a relay race; in high school, I fell in the middle of a crowded hallway, amid my boyfriend's senior friends and teachers; in college, I tripped over an open drawer, and soared about two feet through the air and landed onto the hard floor on my right buttocks, after twisting my ankle. On the first day of my internship, I walked into a glass door, and when I was interviewed for a full time position, I walked in with a cane. Last Wednesday, I tripped over my own headphones, still plugged into my office computer, and then Friday, when I was cleaning a spill, I tripped over the vacuum and bruised my leg.

I tell these stories for the girls who, like me, will never be effortlessly graceful or immune to injury.  These girls are not just clumsy, but rather are women of fatal flaw, of frenzy, of flavor, and only fall because they are exploding with vitality, and are eager to say words and meet people and see the world.

And yes, in the process, these girls may get concussions.

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. 

NY Chili Fest 2013

New York City is a series of theme parties. There's the frat-guy theme, the wealthy-democrat theme, the American-perception-of-China theme, and all three of these parties, Murray Hill, the Upper West Side, and China Town, have their own drink specials. There is also the idealist student theme, the impoverished theme, the forcibly indifferent dumpster diving theme. There's the theme of homogenous Brooklyn, of overpriced Manhattan, of fearing Staten Island.

And then there's the food theme(s).

New York City has a delicious infatuation with theme eateries. It's only in this city that a mac & cheese craving can be satisfied with a "masala mac & cheese," a "Parisienne mac & cheese" and "all-American mac & cheese," all under one roof. It's only in this city that a rice pudding break becomes an overwhelming endeavor, as "coconut coma" and "fluent in French" are among dozens of choices. And it's only in this city that hundreds of hipsters join together to consume voraciously endless bowls of chili.

Sunday, January 27th, was New York City's Chili Fest, a celebration of comfort food for chili connoisseurs from all boroughs. Tureens of steaming chili line the corridors of Chelsea Market, while chives and chips and steel spoons seem to be thrown about in frenzy. Those tabling and representing their restaurant, while seemingly cordial, are actually fiercely competing with each other for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title. To witness this historic event (and to be immersed in beans and beer), my friend spontaneously purchased tickets, and I began rummaging through my closet to find my flannel.

There is always that one girl who interrupts the flow of buffets or dinner parties to ask what is in the food. She's always the one with a deathly allergy to an obscure Brazilian fall grain or with the religious restrictions on certain meats or with neurotic fear of the waiter's thumb grazing her soup. And then there's that one girl who is a vegetarian by choice.

Competition was so cutthroat for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title, that restaurants could not compromise unique recipes for the registered meatless. We asked volunteers, chefs, support staff if there was even one restaurant with a vegetarian version of their chili. The response was the same. Everyone would initially stare blankly, and then open their mouths as if to say, "Alas! You're that girl," but would instead say, "I'm sure there is. But the bar is over there. Why don't you start with beer, first?"

There were all types of chili. There was chili with Thai spices, chili with beef and tofu, chili with Mexican flair. But the one ingredient they all had in common was beer. And so, the only way I could have vegetarian chili, that is, chili stripped of its meat, was to consume its most fundamental component.

And I obliged.

By the end of the night, chili fest had become a dance. Underscoring the perception of unity on to which each so desperately held, a wave of flannel and beards, a spectrum of different colors and sizes, swayed in unison.

There is no such thing as "classic New York," for it is only a series of theme parties, pockets of authenticity wrapped up and sold to the consuming mainstream (you, me, the rest of the world). But if there were such a thing, New York Chili Fest might come close.

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.