How We Exist Beyond Borders
Words by Sharmila Sahni
I had crossed the long seas to India a few times, but never as a bona fide adult. Living in Los Angeles while my father was fighting two diseases in Portland left me feeling guilty and angry and longing to be by his side. The thought of keeping my father company on the last journey to his homeland, exploring my roots, and being by his side on the long flight to New Delhi, gave me hope. Hope that the place he was so fond of, the country that held his heart, would inspire him and help ease some of the suffering caused by cancer and Parkinson’s. Growing up biracial in the US placed me solidly in American culture, and the thought of honoring my Indian half felt like honoring my father, as well.
I had arranged to meet up with my father and brother in Amsterdam and accompany them during the last 10 hours to New Delhi, but the airlines had other plans. The men folk continued on and I arrived 12 hours later at my father’s cousin’s home in Gurgaon, a suburb outside of New Delhi. The smog hung heavier than when we had last been there as a family ten years before. The food, on the other hand, seemed richer, the bold flavors melting in my mouth; the smells and tastes, bringing me back. My family still tells the story of when I was 8 years old and couldn’t stop eating the fresh, hot chapatis (Indian bread) the cook brought out, eating seven in one sitting. Here I was, travel-worn and unabashedly going for round two. Needless to say, I passed out quickly that evening in the nearly all pink bedroom I was assigned.
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. A few days in, during this ritual, I suggested going for a run. My dad smiled, telling me if I ran, I might make a few friends, hinting at the wild monkeys and dogs in the neighborhood. We laughed. We let 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 wandered through the burnt red sand and marveled at the India Gate, as he recounted coming face to face with that iconic moment in history.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an ice cream cart where he used to get ice cream as a kid. We couldn’t believe it was still there. His eyes gleamed with excitement, childhood memories flooding back. We ordered his favorite –mango– and sat on a nearby bench to eat it. A streak of disappointment quickly fluttered across his face.
“Not the same Papa?” I asked.
“Not nearly as good,” he managed through bites, his eyes still playful.
We departed to find one of his favorite Indian restaurants in the Taj hotel. We came upon a darkened cafe, a quarter full, wandered in, and ate dosas and sambar at the place he remembered, only to realize it was the same physical location but not the same restaurant, as all had gone down hill. We shared a look of acceptance, realizing our foolishness at expecting things to be the same. We exited onto the chaotic street, the roundabouts with race car stripes, the buses, rickshaws, bicycles, cows and pedestrians, all fighting for space.
We inched down the street to pick up a taxi, my dad moving slower than usual. His disease was taking its toll and he lacked his old quickness. People didn’t care, pushing past him, plowing on to get to where they were going. Raised with proponents of Indian culture as a kid, I knew respecting elders was a strict, time worn tradition. To see it disappearing in the modernity of the city was disheartening.
We came home and my father took a rest. After an hour, I went in to see him. I sat at the edge of the bed and held his hand. We still enjoyed seeing the majestic architecture and history of the city, joining in a meal, and sharing the secret of India’s former glory. We were both served the ritual piping hot cup of chai and sat there sipping it with family, seated on and around my father’s bed. My father and his cousin reminisced about old times, laughing along the way, the steam from the chai fogging up my father’s glasses. We talked about new improvements to the city and our favorite places in other parts of India. We talked about life back in the US. And it was there in this circle of family, all of us sipping homemade chai, that I felt the beauty of the country and saw all that it had given my father and I: a sense of integrity, of discipline, of respect for our elders, and a love of food. A reverence for family and education. Unparalleled hospitality. A delight in bright colors, and an ability to thrive in chaos.
I learned I come from a rich lineage, that I may exist in a modern world in the US, but the values I carry come from the old truths of this world. I learned life is about accepting change: the changing of landscapes, the varying states of relationships, and the ever evolving meaning of home. I began experiencing the trip with an open heart and 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 here, that this was his last conversation in person with his country. 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 head 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 the most, ride the trains of memory, of history, and look forward to our tomorrows, while still enjoying the present. 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.
About the author: Hailing from Portland, Oregon, Sharmila Sahni is a writer and producer who has developed film and TV for John Legend's film production company, Get Lifted, as well as co-produced content for Refinery 29, SoulPancake, and People TV. She has written, produced, and directed digital content for Vox Media and is fresh off co-writing and producing a feature hybrid documentary for Isaiah Thomas’ Slow Grind Media. She writes everything from screenplays and branded copy to essays and poetry, passionate about unveiling hidden worlds with the written word.
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