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The tickets arrived yesterday. One-way tickets. The date of our return is set. We are going back home for good. There is the usual sense of anticipation that precedes any trip to India. This time there is an additional element of finality to our actions. It’s not just the suitcases on the floor but boxes that need to be filled. Before that, I have closets to empty, papers to sort, and furniture to sell. The phone, electricity, and cable connections—all the amenities that made life at this hectic pace not just possible but convenient and enjoyable—have to be severed. What is harder to do is breaking the ties to the people, the places, and the version of me that will linger.
I buy a small bag of rice hoping that it will suffice for the remaining few days that we will be in America. I am overcome by a fierce wave of emotion. There is no way of predicting what might trigger the sudden bout of sentimentality—the gallon of milk, the neat boxes of pasta in the pantry, or the jar of creamy peanut butter. Previously, only the sight of tiny baby clothes that my daughter once wore brought me to this state. Now I have to steel myself and reduce the contents of that large box of infant clothes and keepsakes to a reasonable size. These items are more than mere tokens of the childhood that I am trying to freeze for my daughter to linger over at a later time. They have turned into priceless mementoes.
I sort through a waist-high pile of boxes full of photographs. I study souvenirs of long ago vacations. It takes forever. The simple task of emptying a closet takes immense effort. My arms are leaden extensions of that part of me that is reluctant to engage in this cleansing ritual. I feel like a child, hesitant to give up old clothes, even though she knows she has outgrown them.
My brother and sister-in-law arrive one Saturday morning to help me pack. They are astonished at the lack of progress on the packing front because they know well my preference for planning ahead. . They patiently fill and tape six boxes before getting discouraged at my obvious resistance and lack of cooperation. They need me to decide what stays and what goes. I am not ready.
We have an endless string of invitations to honor, lunches and dinners hosted by colleagues, friends, and relatives. There seems to be no accepted protocol for this kind of parting. They are unsure whether to congratulate us, wish us luck, or simply say goodbye. To some, we embody the action they wish they had taken. Some assure us that they will follow us when they are ready. To others, we appear foolish for leaving the comforts of American life to embrace the uncertainties of life in India. To some we are the proverbial sacrificial lambs. They wait to see how we will fare before weighing the outcome of our decision in their own “stay or leave” spreadsheet of what-if sceanrios.
There are two cakes that say “farewell” at a party at a friend’s house. We are introduced to another family that is in the same situation as us. It is reassuring in a way, but also doubly depressing.
Is it possible to feel nostalgic about a place even before you leave it? Why do I feel this helpless kind of sadness when I drive by the hospital where my daughter was born, or while pulling into my favorite parking spot at my workplace, or while using the ATM? There are many questions but few explanations, none adequate to fully express the range of emotions that I experience every day.
The entire house is in disarray. The kitchen is worst hit. We eat out a lot. We eschew our regular Indian restaurants and fill up on chips and salsa, eggplant in garlic sauce, and tiramisu. I get into my old faithful Toyota and savor the drive on the scenic Interstate 280, realizing that it will be a while before I drive on the right-hand-side of the road. Probably a long time before I drive for pleasure. I give away my formal suits and informal turtlenecks. I stock up on sandals and moisturizer with sunscreen.
The logistical details of a cross-continental move are enormous. The days are physically exhausting and emotionally draining. I thankfully fall into deep, restful slumber. There is no time to brood about the “what ifs” and “maybes.” I feel a sense of completion at finally arriving at this decision that had always seemed within reach, obscured though it was by the realities and routines of everyday life.
I am acutely aware of my losses. I will miss the perfect Bay area days, NPR, ultra-pasteurized milk, and central air-conditioning. What I will feel more acutely is the loss of people who form a circle of support and security around me. The patience of my Chinese-American friend, the wisdom of my academic advisors, and the laughter I share with my American colleagues. I will miss most the hospitality and solidarity of fellow Indian immigrants whose friendship I could develop only after we left our common country of origin. I know that the universal human characteristics of kindness, generosity, and compassion will cross my path again. But how long will it be before I surround myself with another group endowed with qualities that truly complement mine?
There is an unwritten family rule that there will be no tears at the time of parting if the separation is a necessary stepping-stone towards an auspicious beginning. Does that rule apply now?
I try to keep the tears at bay but it is the sight of the bag of rice that, still unopened on the day of our departure, opens up the flow.
From “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran—
Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache. It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.
