Remnants of my Mehandi still reflect on the palms of my
hands and sides of my feet. My fingers meet my palms as I rub them lightly
against it. I look down at the top of my hands and then at my palms, flipping
my hands back and forth with determination in hopes of some kind of hidden
revelation. My days in India are obscure.
They seem to hide between Reverie and Reality. It’s as if I’m depending on
Her, a tattooed memento of India, to help me remember, recall the details that
swept by me in haste leaving nothing but a foggy picture. Its deep red color
(which they say the darker the Mehandi’s reflection on your skin, the more your
husband loves you.) has ceased, resembling leftovers of what once was beautiful
artwork.
-“I liked the dhobi ghat.” What the hell did I just say? I liked the dhobi ghat? What am I? Five?
That sounds like a child who can’t think of anything better to say after
spending an hour outdoors running up to me, exasperated, sharing the latest
breaking news, “The grass is green.” Or, “The sky is blue.” His eyes were fixed on me, and I couldn’t
discern if they were startled at my stupidity or sincerely still interested. I
got my response within minutes. He asked again, “So what else did you like
about Bombay?” My first response was
clearly mind numbing. I looked outside my window and fixed my eyes on the lamppost
that stands diagonally from my view as the words came out of my mouth, “The
slums were interesting.” What’s wrong
with me? I sounded like a nimwit. I may have well said, “I liked the food”, or
“The people were neat,” (which by the
way, I despise that word ‘neat’ when used as an adjective to describe a person
or place. It shows a lack of depth.) A
perfectly coherent, simple question was asked and I stumbled over my words. I
became mute. It was shameful. He asked me that question thrice, and with
little integrity left, I surrendered. (My loathings are quite simple, stupidity
being at the top) I was waving the white flag as I asked him to pardon my idiocy
and scripted responses. I wanted out of that conversation so I ended it with,
“I loved the culture.” So much for Redemption. I was disappointed at myself for
failing to articulate the very sentiments that I do harbor of my experience in
Hindustan, but how can I elucidate those feelings when everything still remained
unexamined and opaque to me.
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