Travel

I just returned from a family trip to Italy. I've been once, but it was nice to return and see things which I couldn't see before. We did the usual touristy stuff, took trains, got lost, went on a surprisingly nice tour, ate a lot (ample vegetarian options!), even went out one night with my older sister and painfully tried to converse with some Italians!

But something was missing. We were having "fun," in the sense that we were expectedly amused by the stimuli presented before us. As in, here is something new! And over there, too! And, I've never tried that before! But yeah, something was missing.

I love my family. We are very tight-knit, in that warm, cozy way. In that way, when you grow up and get over your teenage angst and see your desi parents as human beings and not doting immigrants who exist only to embarrass you (those were some rough years). We joke around, we realize that we all have a good sense of humor, we're easy going with each other.

But this trip highlighted just how much we can never return to normalcy, just how much we can never be "us" again. In the house, it's easier to distract ourselves with the blown-up busy work of everyday life, the recurring errands, the nominal arguments, the routine of life. But in Italy, no one could really hide it. It was apparent in the long silences on trains. In the wayward glances during meals. The awkard introductions when we would converse with other tourists (of course, my mom found every desi vacationing in Italy!)

My sister Anjali passed away three years ago. She had a brain tumor. She was 23. It hit my mother the hardest, if you can even quantify such a thing. It shook us all to the core, but my mom still hasn't recovered. In the sense that, to her, it's as if Anju passed a week ago. To her, the concept of "moving on" - that weird concept of forging ahead and living normally, which my dad, older sister and I have tried to do - is total bullshit. I can't say that I disagree with her.

The hardest thing for me after Anju's passing was moving across the country for a new job. I willed myself to do it, and I had my family's blessings, since it was all part of that grand scheme of "moving on." Sometimes I miss my family so much that I just want to quit, go home, sit on the living room couch, and ball my eyes out into my mother's shoulder. I want to tell my mom, "Please go ahead and cry, don't be strong for me," but I know that that would only lead her into a deeper depression. To let it all go and live in mourning, to forget about putting on a happy face. It's bizarre. Sometimes I feel like living in mourning is the only true, complete honesty, but it's not healthy. It's too much, and you can get swallowed whole. You have to push against the forces of life's sadness and live. Which is why we took this trip to Italy, our first vacation ever since Anju's passing.

I can't even begin to describe how fun and silly Anju was. I had some time to myself in Italy for some casual strolls, and all I could think about was you. How much fun we would have had. We would have dressed up, walked around Rome in totally impractical shoes, and you would have introduced yourself in your hilarious faux-French accent - "Allo, I em Ahn-joo." You would have probably been tipsy after a couple of sips of whatever, and flirted with all the Italian boys just for the hell of it, while I would be grabbing your arm and pulling you away. Oh, and the shopping. How cute you were. Cute and silly, with that high-pitched voice. I want to hear you squeal again.

After a while, I really didn't want to be in Italy. I wanted to be at home, somewhere easy and familiar. I didn't want to play tourist, I didn't want to visit quaint towns, I didn't want to be "on." But it's all a part of moving on, and of course I didn't voice any of this. Neither did anyone else, except when my mom said, "Anju would have liked all of these things." That was pretty much it.

Memories are weird. It's going to be inherently painful when I'm around my family, since Anju is always going to be a part of us. In Italy, they would come on strong, and then fade away, and when they fade away, you feel like you're progressing, and then you feel guilty for even putting it that way. I wish we could have just talked about it, but it was awkward - vacations are weird. The cold hotel rooms, the flight, the cost - it's like a big investment into living in the moment. Vacations are all about living in the moment, so it's hard when you realize deep down inside that you are stuck in the past. And that you want to stay there, because that was where you were.

It's too much sometimes. So much that sometimes, when people simply say, "2004," I feel a knotting in my stomach.

So yeah, Italy. You would have liked Italy.

For me, traveling somewhere makes me think about other places. In Milan, I was thinking about Mussoorie. I really wanted to be in India at that moment. Even though you would have laughed at me for saying this, I wanted to be there, with you, to give me some mental ease. I kind of wish we had gone back to India for our vacation, instead of Italy. But again, that would seem like a cop out, and three full years later, you would think we would be in the process of "moving on."

During college, Anju had studied abroad in India, and for a part of her trip had stayed in the hill town of Mussoorie. I had never heard of it, since we're Bombay folk, and on the phone I seriously thought she was in Mysore, and that "Mussoorie" was its original, pre-colonial name. I remember thinking, Mysore's that beautiful? And all I said was, "They have sandalwood there, huh?" And you retorted, "Duh - no! Muh-soo-ree. It's not in the south! It has nothing to do with Mysore! It's a hill station and it's gorgeous and sooooo pretty, seriously, I want to be buried here." We never knew, of course, if she was serious or not, since she didn't care to use that word sparingly. It's just one of those snippets of conversation you throw away with all that other mental clutter. And slowly retrieve years later, with guilt and fear, knowing that you have to make a major decision based on it. Based on six words.

Because after you died, every word was sacred. Everything you ever said. While I was racking my brains wondering whether I remembered what you said correctly, wondering if my memory was serving me right, trying to differentiate between your silly/whatever tone and your no-I'm-serious tone, crying because this was actually happening - Daddy just calmly said, "Okay, then we'll go there." So we went to India.

And yeah, right now, all I want is for us to bundle up in large, fluffy sweaters, put a blanket over us, sit on some creaky deck in Mussoorie and look out over the hills into the fog. I'll never forget the first time I saw that fog, and I realized why you fell in love with this place. And I'll never forget the first time Daddy said, "I am always with you, beti" as he was strewing your ashes over the hillside, into the fog. That's the only thing he says in reference to you now - I am always with her. I am always with you.

And that's where I want to be right now. It's where I wanted to be a week ago. As regressive and futile as it seems, it gives me some comfort walking around a quiet town, knowing that you walked there too, and that you were smiling, and that you were happy. Maybe we really haven't moved on. Can you blame us? Ma still irons your saris and keeps your room; she loves you beyond words. Daddy still has that wide grin. Aruna has been my everything - even though you and I were closer, I thank god everyday that she's been with me through all this.

Needless to say, we cut the trip short.

I'm still jetlagged. I miss you so much. Buona notte, my love.

Agonizing Over a Blog Name...

I chose one of my all-time favorite songs, "Chod Do Aanchal" from the 1957 movie "Paying Guest." Pretty, pretty song.

Although my sister's reaction was, "Chod...do...Aanchal? Is "Chod do" Korean?" Hee.

And of course there is the "deeper" meaning of "chod do Aanchal" - I'm sure there's some liberating and earth-defying mysticism in there, but I'll save that for the spoken word artists. I just like the song: