There are times when, at an utter loss to do anything else, I find I must write.
So often is this the case when issues arise concerning my other home, India, because while born on American soil, my heart bleeds a mixture of Indian and American blood.
My father’s oldest brother, my Uncle Ashok, passed away after a long struggle with COVID-19. I understand now the feelings of helplessness family members grapple with watching their loved ones fight against such an isolating virus. I understand it on two dimensions—the helplessness of not being able to be at your loved one’s bedside coupled with the helplessness of hearing the news of loss from a distance that spans an ocean.
I will never understand the bravery, the courage, the inundation of emotions that must have consumed my father and his family when he made the choice to settle in America with hopes of giving back to those he loved . What I do understand is the way my father’s heart still lives in India, his home country, the way his smile relaxes and his whole body lightens when his feet touch Delhi clay. Because my heart also lives in India, my smile too is echoed on the faces of those with darker skin than I, my body too lightens as the scents of spices, masala, chai, cumin, turmeric, cardamom waft through the air that is composed of the same matter as the air I breathe in Mississippi. It is like when I was born my roots embedded themselves in both countries—India and America—and so I still feel the tug toward my Eastern home, I still feel a sense of displacement when I am not there.
My Uncle Ashok will be remembered for his gentle humbleness, his easy humor, his compassion and dutiful and loyal heart. I think fondly of trips to India as a child, seeing Ashok and my other family in the airport. I think of chai in cups and hot matthis, the salty and crumbly snack my grandmother made. I think of rooftops on buildings with my cousins, flowers in cracked pots and Delhi fog blurring the horizon. I think of my Uncle the first time I tried pan from a roadside stand, its bitter leaf staining my palm. I think of his sideways hugs, his large framed glasses, his soothing voice and the unmistakable resemblance to my father, the unmistakable resemblance to myself–confirming our place as Anands in this world, a name which stems from the Sanskrit word for bliss.
And so, Ashok Anand, it is not with sorrow but with bliss that I remember your life. It is not with pain but with joy that I celebrate your soul passing from this life into the next. And it is not goodbye, but rather “see you on the other side”, where no amount of ocean or miles can separate us from one another.