Lights and Fire

Well I guess the shark and squid teamed up with the goat and quail because a few days after my return from Puducherry I became ill. I ignored it at first as the flu but my boss suggested I see a doctor, so a friend took me to the hospital. Despite my body aches and pain I was giddy to go, experiencing another country’s healthcare system struck me as a chance for a case study. Admittedly if I destined to the emergency room or for a surgery I might not have had the same sentiment. After a payment for the entire bill that equaled my co-pay at home and an examination, the doc said I likely got a bacterial bug from something I ate. I tried to pinpoint which street side stall, shack or restaurant was the culprit. Weak western guts.  

Take this, this and this and get some rest. I was relegated to my apartment that weekend. Being sick is never fun but especially when you are far away from home. Lounging about in the rain, in my moment of sickness and weakness, I had my first acknowledgements of homesickness. Disarmed and alone, I wrestled with these thoughts as I tried to sleep over the body aches and sweats. My bedroom became a battleground.

Well timed calls from friends and Facetime sessions with my family jolted me, quieting my restless mind and allowing me respite to heal. Feeding off their support and finding the strength to do so much more than just kick a stomach bug. And when everyone you have ever known is asleep somewhere far off, the company of the muses. The song from Fleetwood Mac that reminds you of childhood camping trips to the Sierra with your family, serenading the landscapes of the Southwest, as you sit in the backseat feeling safe and secure surrounded by baggage with your Gameboy and blanket. The song from Crosby, Stills and Nash that represents the dream your parents had when they settled down and created a family, and how everything that has been revealed is greater than that dream could have ever imagined. The song from Van Morrison that was the song to this past summer and evenings on the porch with your mom, dad or whoever had stopped by that evening, and over a cold beer you could close your eyes and still smell the coastal sage brush from your beach trip, hike or bike ride.  They, along with a makeshift army of carefully arranged stones, the sentinels of your soul.

And about my apartment, the mementos of true love and support that allows you to jettison off into a future unknown, and in the face of momentary lapses of self-doubt and withdraw, continue on renewed. The realization those pillars that I built my life on will be there to greet me when I return and share our stories. The ceremonious letter my nana has written for me, before each move whether heading back to school, moving to Denver. The picture of my niece by my bed stand. Pictures of smiling friends and family on my walls. Drawings from the students of Annunciation. I miss my Cardinals.

I spent a lot of time on the balcony and when the sun broke through the clouds and I felt stronger than my body aches, walking around the village for tea and bakery treats. And the never-in-a-hurry sit on a cinder block, watching people in the street or games of cricket in the empty lot. And doing the things I kind of lost track of before India, playing (loose word) my guitar, writing and reading (I blame that in part to one or two god awful books that started my year).

“When many gather in the sky and circle about, we believe it is going to rain” someone had told me of the hawks over Bangalore, and almost every evening they did and it rained for a week. And from my balcony I dutifully watch them. Gliding above the neighboring courtyard and its sole tree in the center. Twisting and turning through clothing lines and the fluttering sheets on the neighboring rooftops. Diving and spinning in dogfights with other birds. Circling above unfinished skyscrapers popping up everywhere. I have long since known a porch or balcony is the most valuable place in a house.

My health improved and coincided with the gathering festivities surrounding Diwali. In every doorway were draped ribbons or marigold and jasmine, cars adorned with palms, and markings of thanks given to the items in life that we owe our livelihoods to. These blessing were a tribute to Lakshmi, Vishnu’s wife and goddess of prosperity. In every profession and age, people marked the tools that sustained them, kept them safe, and fed them, with a blessing of thanks and wish for future prosperity. The front car lights that illuminate our way, the office doorway that provides families a living each time we walk into work, the food seller’s street cart that allows him to display his offerings of nourishment to others . In the evenings oil lamps were lit in windows and doorways to guide Lord Rama home, and in the final days the fireworks competed with colorful balcony and rooftop lights for attention in the skies of Bangalore. And if your neck got tired from looking up, at the feet of doorways the beautiful Ragoli sand designs crafted by older women bent over in their saris, accented with pedals and lamps.

To an American it was a mix of Fourth of July and Christmas. Families in homes and festivities in the streets.

At night some of my coworkers joined me at my apartment to shoot off the fireworks I had purchased on the outskirts of town, where they were manufactured and then sold in the temporary buildings that popped up to unload a year’s worth of firework stock for the four day holiday.

As we ran up the flights of stairs, each exploding firecracker made us run faster and skip steps, eager not miss anything and excited for the pending show of our own. From the unlocked rooftop we had a view for miles of fireworks bursting over Bangalore, and immediately set up our poured out beer bottle for a stand and lit the smaller ones first with candles. Flower pots and sparkles, crackers and butterflies. We got bolder as our stock grew smaller and boyish laughs got louder. Taking one of the remaining butterfly firecrackers (called this because they changed colorful and flew through the air in random changing directions, making a fluttering sound of wings) I lit it and just when I went to toss it off the roof, it caught in my hand and shot backwards towards everyone else gathered. We killed over laughing. With tears in my eyes I examined the blacks of my hand. We saved the largest rockets for last, the ones marketed like some sort of Indian scud missiles. After a few that just exploded on the ground, we got a good fly off the last one.

On the final night of Diwali, on the backseat of a friend’s Royal Enfield, my kurta and ears catching the night air, we went flying through the streets under the exploding skies of Bangalore. Shot off from roofs, sides of the road, and alleys. I stupidly asked how fast this thing goes and we picked up speed. Faster and faster. Festival of lights and of hope.

I’m back.

Challo bye.