How We Exist Beyond Borders

by Sharmila Sahni (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find India

Living in LA while my father was fighting cancer and Parkinson's in Portland, left me feeling guilty and angry and longing to be by his side. Keeping my father company on the last trip to his homeland and exploring my roots gave me hope. Growing up biracial in the US, placed me solidly in American culture and honoring my Indian half, felt like honoring my father as well. We arrived in Gurgaon, a tech-filled suburb outside of New Delhi. The smog hung heavier than when we had last been there but the food seemed richer, the bold flavors melting in my mouth. In the mornings, I would drink coffee and my dad would drink piping hot chai and we would sit on the white marble balcony in the sun. I suggested going for a run and my dad smirked, hinting at the wild monkeys and dogs in the neighborhood. We resorted to letting the winter sun warm our chilly bones after sleeping without heat, like many Indians do in the few cold months. That particular day my father wanted to see the monuments of his youth, including India Gate and the Parliament, where he had witnessed the British Raj leaving the palace, signaling the end of British rule in India. We traipsed through the burnt red sand and marveled at the India Gate as he recounted his vivid story. We found a cart where he used to get ice cream as a child, his eyes gleaming with excitement. We ordered his favorite, a goldenrod colored mango ice cream. A streak of disappointment fluttered across his face. “Not the same Papa?” I asked. “Not nearly as good,” he managed, his eyes still playful. We departed to find his favorite restaurant in the Taj hotel. We came upon a darkened cafe, a quarter full, ordering dosas and sambar, only to realize it was not the same restaurant, as all had gone down hill. We accepted our foolishness at expecting things to be the same. We exited onto the chaotic street, the roundabouts with race car striping, the rickshaws, bicycles, cows and pedestrians, all fighting for space. My dad was slower than usual, his disease taking its toll. People didn’t care, pushing rudely past him. To see the tradition of respecting elders disappearing in the modernity of the city was disheartening. My father took a rest and I later went in to see him, sitting at the edge of the bed, holding his hand. We had still enjoyed seeing the majestic architecture and history of the city while sharing the secret of India’s former glory. We sat there sipping chai, our extended family seated around my father’s bed. My father and his cousin laughed, reminiscing about old times, the steam from the chai, fogging up my father’s glasses. It was there in this circle of family, I felt the beauty of the country and saw what it had bestowed upon my father and I. A sense of integrity, a love of food. A reverence for family and education. A delight in bright colors and an ability to thrive in chaos. I learned an incredible amount about myself and my father, seeing things as they were, not how I wanted them to be. I saw what gave my father joy and where he got his generous heart. I knew he wouldn’t be back, that this was his last conversation, in person with his country. That this was his goodbye. I studied him to see if he mourned it or had made peace with it. The only answer I received was a question. Are you mourning the loss that’s coming or have you made peace with it? The words echoed in my mind and I realized the two could coexist. The only thing I could do in the face of that paradox, was to connect to those I loved, be in conversation about what truly moved me, ride the trains of memory, of history and look forward to our tomorrows. I found myself fully alive in that mystical land, holding hands with an undying piece of my heart. A piece of my heart to which time and place and distance would cease to matter.