Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Day 11: Mysterious Wish

(To know more about this Duet, click here. We have switched and now I am writing first, Rukmini doing art in response. You can check out more of Rukmini's work here. ) 

Art & Words Duet: Day 11 
The Return 
Part Three - Mysterious Wish 
(note: this piece is fiction)

One morning my mom shook me awake, whispering, "Honey, it's time. Your father."

Unquestioningly, with bleary eyes, I jumped out of bed and followed my mother down the hall to my father's room. There was spiritual chanting of God's names, called kirtan, going on in my dad's room. The past several days this kirtan had been going on twenty-four hours a day, non-stop. When I entered the dimly lit room, my father's bed was surrounded by several soft and somber faces. Suddenly, I was struck by how beautiful my father was. 

So beautiful. 

My father was lit by lamps that cast pools of soft bronze light.  He wore a flower garland that encircled his entire body. He was emaciated. His bones were protruding from his elbows and legs, I seemed to see his thigh bones through his thin cotton cloth. His face had become all angles, his eyes sunken into his head. His skin had lost its luster.  

My father's body was deteriorating and yet his beauty was growing. So many people, from Bengali villagers to travel-monks, had come by in steady streams to see him, to offer their respects, to reminisce, to offer appreciation. Some gave him gentle massages, some sang for him, some prepared medicine or oat water. Some would read to him for hours on end from scripture. My father would receive the presence of each person with folded palms and with a smile that completely disarmed me. In all my life I had never seen my father smile in such a way. He was beautiful. He seemed to evoke deep, profound love of people he had never even met before. 

Who was this man?  

For the past couple weeks I had been quiet and kept my distance, and my father seemed to be receiving other people more than my mom or me. We mainly helped the nurses with their services. We seemed to understand that dad was reconnecting with a whole other life, a whole other worldwide community that he needed to find closure with in his final days.  

That fateful morning, mom and I entered my father's room and immediately his gaze turned to both of us. He smiled that beautiful smile, and suddenly my chest filled with heat and tears stung my eyes. 

Stay strong, I reminded myself. 

Mom and I approached his bed and he looked at us, his eyes luminous. He looked at my mother and murmured so softly we had to lean in to hear him over the music, "I love you." She began to weep and weep and he just looked at her. Then he turned to me and said with deep conviction, "I love you."

"Dad, I love you," I said, the unabashed tears flowing down my face. I wanted to ask him so many questions. I wanted to go for a walk in the park, like we used to do almost every day, even in the snow, even in the rain. I wanted to hug him. I wanted him to stay.   

He looked at me lucidly, thoughtfully. Then he said, "Eliza,"

My stomach dropped. His tone of voice was so grave. I took a breath and leaned in further.

"Promise me one day you will lead kirtan."

Kirtan? Lead kirtan? What was going on right now, this singing with those instruments? I don't sing. I don't even know what kirtan really is. I can barely follow the words. Lead? Lead kirtan? Just one kirtan? Or all the time? This all whirled through my head, the thoughts jumbling and bumping into each other. 

"Promise me."

There could be only one response. I nodded. 

My dad smiled and moved his hand towards mine, and I took his frail hand. I would hold his hand until he left this world.  

Dawn filtered into our room, the birds began to sing, and more and more people filled the space. The kirtan continued nonstop. Confusion and fear whirred through me, and I found myself listening to the kirtan, wondering why, why, why would my father give this to me as his dying wish. 

At one point, the music rose, the voices rose in a tumultuous sound. My father's eyes were closed, his breath shallow and irregular. His lips were faintly moving to the holy name being sung, and then, he breathed one last time, a big sigh. 

Tears were pouring down almost every face, even the wise swamis. Where my father had once been,  giant, empty chasm ripped open wide in my heart. But then when the kirtan rose in volume, I had a curious experience. That hole filled with the holy name being sung, like warm liquid being poured into a vessel. I felt safe, whole, protected, loved. I was absolutely astonished with the realization that my father not only wanted me to experience this, but to give this to others. Later on, this feeling would fade away and that raw emptiness returned. But in those moments I understood. I understood.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Day 10: Setting Sun

(To know more about this Duet, click here. We have switched and now I am writing first, Rukmini doing art in response.) 

Art & Words Duet: Day 10 
The Return 
Part Two - Setting Sun
(Note: this piece is fiction)

India was a trip. Literally and figuratively. Thirty-seven hours of travel over land, air, and the craziest backroads I could have ever imagined. By the time we reached our room in the village of Mayapur, I felt like I had just been in a washing machine and roller coaster combined. For 37 hours. And India itself, with its phantasmagoria of colors, sounds, and scents, seemed to leave me dizzy.

Then there was my dad. He needed to be wheeled around in a wheelchair. Strange. Every moment sitting in a taxi, plane, and rickshaw seat, even running to catch a connecting flight, my mind was on my father. I didn't know that kind of absorption was possible. I had never seen him look so weak. My mind kept replaying like a broken record back to that moment in the apartment when my dad told me, "We need to go, honey."

Go? Go where? To this strange country? For God's sake why?

Our first morning in India, two guests came to see my father. One was from China and spoke broken English - his face was wizened and his eyes sharp. The other was from Los Angeles, an old buddy who used to work with my dad. With each visitor I was at my dad's shoulder and observed the conversations.

The rest of the day I knocked out with jetlag.

The following days were a blur of a river of visitors. The flow was increasing with each day. Bengali villagers who spoke not a lick of English, wizened American Hare Krishna monks who wore flowing orange robes, and quite a few Chinese people - I guess my dad had done some outreach in China.

My dad began to shrink in size, becoming skin and bones. I barely left the apartment. My usual fire of curiosity to explore was extinguished and inside I felt like a cold fireplace. I was exhausted.

One day, my mom gently ushered me to come with her to the rooftop of our apartment building. We watched the sun set in silence, she stroking my arm the entire time. The river Ganga flowed off in the distance gleaming orange and pink in the evening. The last slice of orange slipped below the water of the Ganga. I reached up to brush my hair away from my face and felt that my face was wet. Then I sobbed in my mother's arms. The tears seemed bottomless, and when I went to bed that night I felt completely emptied out and exhausted and also strangely clean.






To write is to dare the soul. So write.