A faster way to India
The kids want veggie sausage for breakfast. The mornings are cold and rushed. There are lunches to make, water bottles to fill, backpacks to zip up. I calculate how much time is left before I can drop off the kids and drive it to work. I aim for a few minutes of space before the first patient, but I know I will be a few minutes. I clutch Darshan’s hand as we stride across the playground of his school. I look at the faces of the other parents, and none make eye contact with me. Did we even go to india? Sometimes I wonder. It just doesn’t feel real.
“Amma there’s a faster way to go to India,” says Darshan while we walk. I am startled by his sudden statement, but don’t show it. His hand is so soft and small in mine. These are my favorite moments, when I hold his hand and walk him to the school door.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah. You go from California to Japan, and then to India,” he says.
“Darshan, that way might actually be longer,” I say.
“No it isn’t,” he insists.
“Did you look at a globe,” I ask.
“No, I just know,” he says.
This short conversation before I drop off my 8 year-old thrills me. Darshan still remembers! He wants to go back! He’s been thinking about how to go back!
I think back to before the trip, when my anxiety was through the roof. Will they have fun? How will they adjust to the time? The jet lag will be brutal. Will they just want Taco Bell every day? Will they get along with their aunts, uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers? But my anxieties were such a colossal waste of time. India has made an impression on my kids’ amygdalas, and a good one at that! India is so sensory - the colors, the smells, the tastes, the sounds. It’s sensory overload, in fact, down to the obnoxious Indigo (local Indian airline) aircraft music crooning Alll I want iiiiis… to toooouch down to the point where Jeevan’s eyes rolled up to the sky.
Here in the U.S., we’re almost deprived of sensation. We are confined to our cars, our offices, our own houses. When I go for an evening walk, I cross paths with neighbors with earbuds in place, broadcasting music or a favorite podcast. People text more than we call, we initiate conversations in computer chats, Teams chat, more than in person.
But in India, in a country of over a billion people, there is someone in your face almost all of the time. And for me, it happened to be mostly family.
In between patients, my What’sApp dings. It’s Usha Kaki, wishing me a Happy Sankranti (celebration of harvest). She writes, Do you still remember India? I take this to mean that she remembers our visit, and she, too, wonders if it really happened now that she is back in her routine.
Yes of course, I write back. Do you remember the tour guide at the Taj Mahal? He was so savvy, and copied me calling you “Kaki.” Like “Kakiiii! Come with me!” And we went to mangala Aarti together in Vrindavan! I was telling Amma how much strength you have! I put in as many memories as possible into one text. Later, she sends me a video of a new Indian “ATM” machine that makes hot, steaming idlis and vadas, found at Bengaluru metro stations. I think of my breakfast of tea and toast.
A few days later, I drop off some soup I made to my parents at their house. They celebrated Sankranti a few days late due to illness, and my mother offers me a sweet dish she prepared.
“You must eat a small spoon,” she says, holding a spoonful just inches from my mouth knowing I don’t like to eat late in the evening. She gives me no choice, but I wouldn’t have refused. I want a taste of India. The dish is sweet, but not overly so, and feels cooling on the tongue, almost like camphor. I ask for more, and she is thrilled. When I leave, she places some kumkum on my forehead. I notice the packets of snacks in the kitchen, gifts from family before we left India.
In the evenings, before it’s time for bed, I notice Jeevan devours his Indian comic books. One weekend afternoon, he motions for me to join him under a soft blanket. He has the comic book version of the Mahabharat. We read a whole chapter together, silently. Jeevan finishes the pages quicker than I do, and I realize that he has read this before many times.
“I want to read tooooo!!!” screams Darshan, plopping on the couch besides us. We all share the book together, reading and cuddling. Thinking back to India, we didn’t have many moments like this. We were always on the go, always with family, heading to a museum or a temple, or a shop, or an airport. Now, we are back in the quiet, expansive, isolated space that is America.
It’s time for Friday night kirtan and potluck. I’m working this weekend, and Venka has taken the kids to Milwaukee to see his parents, so it’s just me attending. The rhythm of the mrdanga, the tingling kartals fill up the space inside of me, hungry for sensation. The melodies we sing in unison, each of us swaying to the music as we wish. We pause for dinner - there’s grilled veggies, mac and cheese, bhel, paneer vegetable curry, pasta salad, vanilla cake with raspberry filling. An oddly delicious combo. Then, they ask me to lead the next kirtan.
“You’re fresh off your India bliss! We need to hear it!” Tulsi Sakhi says. I say, no. I’m on call. What if I get a page?
“Just five minutes,” she begs.
“Ok, five minutes.” I wasn’t prepared for this. I have no idea what tune to sing. I fiddle with the harmonium, the soft keys offer very little resistance under my fingertips. A melody comes to me, and I close my eyes and sing. The unison of voices singing the maha mantra surprises me, jolts me into the present. They get stronger with each line. I get stronger with each line. I think of the temples of India, of the temple in Dallas. Kunda plays the drum steadily, with strong hands. The music fills me, and I feel at home.
I love this piece. I miss our Friday kirtans. .