The terminal

“Passengers travelling to Cairo by LH 782 are requested to come to the boarding gate. “
Names of cities, some distant some close, floated over the terminal through an echoing, disembodied voice coming from the PA system. Hundred of people were standing, waiting, reading books, fussing over their kids, counting their bags as they waited to catch their flight. In this place that lay in between cities, in between countries, where no visas were required – a transient space between destinations – Sameer felt a strange sense of comfort. He could identify with this feeling of in-betweenness.

He was on his way back from a 20 day trip to India. He could still remember the flight eleven years ago - it had been the exact same route - New Delhi to New York via Amsterdam. He had been excited and nervous – fascinated by the watches in the duty free shop. The flight had been half-empty, and this time there wasn’t even standing room in the flight, and the entire trip seemed very predictable.

It had been more than two years since he had last visited India and now he wasn’t quite sure what was home. On earlier trips, when fellow passengers asked him where and why he was going, he would reply, “I am going home to India – Delhi.”, but this time he found himself saying, “I am going to India for a vacation.” It hadn’t been a conscious change – the word ‘home’ had slipped from his replies silently and surreptitiously. T

Though Sameer had never intended to stay on America, one thing led to another and now 11 years later , he had bought a house and acquired the little green card. At 36, single and successful in New York, he suddenly was not as sure of himself as he had been as gawky twenty something fresh off the boat in America. Sameer had come to the US not as a potential immigrant wanting to settle down in a more prosperous land, he had come as someone who just wanted to explore another world. He often looked condescendingly on those Indians who clung on desperately to all things Indian – constantly went to Indian restaurants and had only Indian friends. He was also mildly amused by ABCDs – the American born Indians who went out of their way to prove their americanness. Though, in those initial days as a graduate student, Sameer had been struck by the alienness of this new land, he had never felt uncomfortable about himself or his identity -in fact, he had never really bothered to question it. Perhaps it was the transition from the cocky exuberance of youth to the mellow wariness of adulthood, but in the last few years Sameer had suddenly starting thinking about it.

Every time he went to India, he was amazed by how much it had changed and yet how similar it was to the country he grew up in. Most of his friends in India were now married, many had children and their lives were effortlessly mimicking the lives of his parents - though a little more decadent and irreverent. Servants milling around the house, expensive cars and wives laughing freely with their husbands – calling them by their first names – something he had never seen his mother do. He felt a little envious of their lives, of their certainty. His parents were also gently urging him to come back to India. “I see so many young people returning to India these days – with your qualifications, you could do anything you wanted, “ his father would remark while reading a newspaper without actually looking up. He wanted it to sound casual, and not as if he was deliberately trying to influence Sameer in any way. His mother and grandmother were also getting increasingly worried about the fact that he was still single. His mother desperately wanted to organize a grand ostentatious wedding, and be part of the conversations in her Bridge club where her friends criticized their daughter-in-laws.

Manisha’s proposal had fallen through. Despite her best intentions to keep it secret, word of her conversion spread. From a friend visiting to Boston to a distant aunt in Mumbai to a friend of a friend in Pune.- there was a brief detour in Indore by way of an errant uncle, and then it finally landed on the doorsteps of Sameer’s parents in Delhi. His mother was mortified and felt a little guilty for initiating the proposal but Sameer didn’t care since he had had only one desultory phone conversation with Manisha and was almost glad that he didn’t have to go through with it. But secretly, without Sameer’s knowledge, his mother had once again resumed her efforts to find a suitable girl for him. And Sameer, though he wouldn’t admit it to his parents, was also secretly yearning to find a suitable girl. In his middle years, straddling between two continents – he felt desperately in need of a destination. He was beginning to realize that being a citizen of a global village wasn’t entirely what it was cracked up to be.

As Sameer sat in the airport terminal waiting to catch his connecting flight - he watched the faces of people and listened to the sounds around him. Now more than ever, he was acutely aware of this feeling of in-betweenness.

Arranged destiny (part 2)

Toledo, Ohio --- this was middle America, and this was not the country that wannabe immigrants thought of when they thought of the land of plenty and the land of opportunity. This was the country of strip malls, chucky cheese and god fearing Christians. This was not the country of the melting pot, but a country where all shades of black, white, and grey were clearly spelt out, and Manisha was always conscious of the fact that she was brown.

It was hard for Manisha to get used to the town and to her new life in the US. In Bangalore, she had always been surrounded by people, and she would go to book stores and restaurants and plays without thinking twice. In Toledo, she found herself holed up in a two bed-roomed apartment. Vivek would go the hospital at around 6 in the morning and not return till about 8 in the evenings, and on the days he had a night shift , he would spend the day sleeping. She tried to keep herself busy by experimenting with new recipes . She flipped through the channels on TV and watched the Days of Our Lives. She read, and on occasion re-read some of her favorite books. And yet, she couldn’t fill the hours. Since she didn’t know how to drive, she couldn’t venture out of the house. She had tried walking to the grocery store once, but the fierce wind had numbed her hands and feet. And after five months of marriage, Vivek still seemed like a stranger to her . Manisha desperately wanted to be a good wife – she had always excelled in everything in her life, and she was determined to make her life as a wife successful as well. She would often reads Cosmo articles on top ten ways to seduce your man to compensate for her sexual inexperience. She would try and make witty conversation. She would redecorate the house. She would cook butter chicken. Yet nothing seemed to break the ice.

One day Vivek walked in to the house late at night, and Manisha had been waiting up for him for dinner. She smelled alcohol on his breath, and asked him as demurely as she could, “Did you go out drinking tonight?”
“It’s none of your business,” he replied shoving her out of his way.
The next day at breakfast, neither Vivek or Manisha said anything about the incident. The frequency of such incidents gradually increased , and every time Vivek would become more taciturn and Manisha was pushed farther away. But Manisha didn’t or wouldn’t give up. In many of the Mills and Boons stories she had read, the man was often brusque, haughty and distant in the beginning, but would eventually succumb to woman’s love. Manisha was hoping that her story would also end that way. She kept her pain hidden from her parents, her friends and even from herself. There were days when she would look at herself in the mirror, and not see the bruise under her chin.

Of all the things that travel fast, secrets travel the fastest. Manisha’s parents had always suspected that things were not going well with their daughter, but a visit from a family friend who had just come back from the States confirmed their worst fears. Manisha’s father was livid – he insisted that Manisha leave Vivek. But Manisha’s mother was hesitant about the repercussions of divorce. But her husband who had once said, “I want everyone to talk about my daughter’s wedding” was now saying, “I don’t care what people will say – she is my daughter.”
Manisha, however, was reluctant to let go - parts of her still thought she could make it work. Her father gently but firmly pulled her away.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania --- Manisha walked out onto Spruce Street. The gothic structure of the Upenn’s school of medicine loomed behind her. She could feel the air getting cooler, and she pulled her lab coat more closely around her body. As a second year resident, she couldn’t quite tell when her nights began and her days ended. She would walk from work to home, and from home to work. Down Pine, and a left on 43rd. She had walked those six blocks for more than a year now, and yet today she was acutely aware of it. She saw the tram lines zig zagginng through the street, she saw the frat boys drinking beer on the porches, and she noticed the flamboyant flourishes of the Queen Anne row houses that lined the streets, with their columned porches and decorative spindle-work.

As she approached Pine street, she saw a middle aged man motioning to her with a flyer in his hand. “Sister, can I talk to you, “ he beckoned. “I have some good news to share.” Manisha assumed that he was from one of those evangelical groups trying to find prospects. She humored him and took the flyer, without slowing down her pace of walking. “Sister, wait, “ he said in a voice that was so gentle that she felt drawn towards it. “Praise be to Allah”, he replied as she turned around and faced the man. The man was an Imam at a local Masjid. He was originally from North Africa, and had lived in the US for more than 30 years. He was helping many new African immigrants cope with life in America , and in the process helping them to find their path to God. Manisha was never very religious, but she had always thought of herself as a good believing Hindu with secular ideals. But here she was listening to the man tell her about how she could find truth, strength and peace through Allah. He encouraged her to attend a weekend long course on Islam, and though she rarely had time to do things outside of work, she found herself saying “yes.”

For all her life, Manisha had struggled to grasp something real. Growing up as privileged child in Bangalore, she struggled to feel connected with life and she had thought that marriage would let her do that. In Toledo, she struggled to solidify her marriage and possibly latch on to this thing that was called love. Yet it always eluded her. But through the Koran , and through the Sunnah which laid out the rules and regulations of life, she finally found something, someone she could hold on to. There was no relativity here. It was absolute. It was unmoving. It was unchanging. It was infallible. And a week later, at Shahadah (conversion ceremony), Manisha embraced this absoluteness with the words, “La illaha il Allah, wa Muhammad arasool Allah. - there is no God worthy of worship except Allah, and only Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”

Arranged destiny (Part 1)

"She was fair and slim. She was homely and convent educated. Good family background. Beautiful with traditional Indian values." Manisha was the culmination of the brides wanted matrimonial ads that appeared in Times of India. Not only was Manisha charming and well heeled, she was also a doctor, and for those who wanted beauty with brains, MBBS was the perfect suffix in a daughter-in-law. Even in the 60s, when feminism was still a nascent movement, it was acceptable for women to be doctors and by the 80s it was the desired qualification - being a doctor signaled that the girl was studious and industrious, and it fit in with the role of a woman as a nurturer and caregiver. Excited phone calls were made from Bangalore to Bombay, and from Bombay to Delhi, and the matriarchs of Punjabi Khatri elitedom were vying with each other to find a suitable boy for this golden girl of their clan.

Manisha had been born into a world of privilege. Her life was everything that Savita's wasn't. Manisha had breezed through life with her sweetness and charm. She was the only daughter, and Suresh Khanna , her father doted on her. She was dropped off to college in a chauffeur driven car, and her every whim was indulged. She knew that there was pain and suffering in the world, but she found it hard to imagine what that would be like. She often asked 15 year old Meena who worked in their house about her life. Meena was originally from Jharkhand in Bihar but her family had sent her to Bangalore several years ago. She lived in their house, and helped with small chores like making tea and ironing clothes.

Proposals had started pouring in for Manisha since the day she turned twenty. Her parents waited until she had graduated from medical school, and though her father was reluctant to part with his beloved daughter, eventually he was forced to give in to the onslaught of the Khatri matriarchs. "Suresh , at least meet the boy parents. They have a big shipping business you know. Manisha will live like a princess." "Suresh , you can't keep Manisha for ever. You have to let her go at some point. She is a daughter after all."

Manisha was quite excited at the prospect of meeting boys and getting married. Her parents had been very protective of her, and she hadn't really been with any men. Often, during exam week, she would read Mills and Boons and fantasize about falling in love passionately with someone tall, dark and handsome in the middle of a stormy night. Instead Manisha met her husband to be on a balmy summer evening at a restaurant in the Windsor Sheraton hotel in Bangalore. She was chaperoned by her parents, her elder brother and her aunt who had set up the match. The boy was accompanied by his parents and his grandmother. Vivek was a doctor as well. He was completing his residency in internal medicine in the United States. Vivek was good looking in the way many Punjabi men are. Manisha and Vivek spoke briefly about their work , talked about their hobbies and the kind of music they listened to. Around them their parents chattered about politics, common acquaintances, and the difficulty in getting reliable servants. The fact that they were consciously changing the lives of their children for ever was not mentioned once - as is often the case in upper middle class genteel environs in India, the most important things are left unsaid.

A week and two days later, Manisha was engaged to Vivek. Her parents seemed to approve of him, and she found no reason to dislike him either. Soon after their engagement, Vivek flew back to the US. He was only allowed three weeks of vacation in a year, so the wedding was set for early February after hectic consultations with the priest who decided upon an auspicious day. Manisha 's parents left no stone unturned in preparation for the wedding. Nearly a thousand people were invited, and rooms in two hotels were booked. Manisha's lehenga came from Bangalore's top designer Smita Prabhu - it was red silk encrusted with gold embroidery and sequins and weighed almost as much as Manisha. The food came from Bangalore's finest caterers , and though once or twice Manisha's mother had suggested prudence, her father had pooh poohed the idea. He wanted everyone to remember his daughter's wedding.

On the morning of her wedding, Manisha sat in her room trying out the different pieces of jewelry. She felt both excitement and nervousness. She had spoken to Vivek a few times on the phone, but still didn't know enough about him. The thought of the unknown scared her, but it also secretly thrilled her - all her life she had been protected and sheltered and she was itching to touch the world beyond. Outside she could here a gaggle of voices. Her father was shouting at the man who was hired to assemble the shamiana - the wedding tent. "Is this how you put a tent? Do you want kill all my guests," he said in a voice that was already hoarse with belting out orders. She would miss her father, whose eyes lit up everytime she walked into the room. She would miss this house, this room - where she had spent all her teenage years -the walls adorned with posters of Hollywood heroes, Vincent Van Gogh and the Beatles.
She would miss Banaglore.

Meena walked in to the room with a glass of juice, and watched Manisha as she fiddled with her bangles. Mansiha saw Meena's reflection in the mirror and smiled at her. "Didi, you look very beautiful," said Meena smiling back wistfully. Manisha gave Meena one of her necklaces. Meena hesitated and then very carefully she took into her hands and felt the radiance of the gold consume her. As Manisha saw Meena'a face shimmering , she hoped that marrying Vivek would give her that moment of shimmering happiness

Prelude (to Rockaby, Rockaby)

There in the shadows of the afternoon sun I stood
Waiting to catch my breath, and a bus
And you smiled from across the street
Straight on, without prelude, protocol or fuss

Twenty minutes and a coffee later
As only the very young can , we fell
Head and heels, body and soul
lacing fingers together, we said hey- what the hell?

We heard the autumn leaves crumble as we walked
We let the last rays of warmth get into our skin
and languid nights strong and sweet
were spent in what some may call sin

And then without warning or word
The days got shorter, the nights cooled
And if I hadn't known you better *
You would have probably had me fooled

But seasons change, as they must
Who can you accuse, who can you blame
We loved, you did, I was , we were
Sometimes, losing is just as much a part of the game

But like all things that ebb and flow
What goes around comes around
This may well be my winter of discontent
But what once was lost will soon be found

Abby

*
Interpretation

Somewhere within your loving look I sense,
Without the least intention to deceive,
Without suspicion, without evidence,
Somewhere within your heart the heart to leave.

Vikram Seth