karma chameleon

This trip to India has been a long time coming and I’ve had mixed feelings all year about going. On the surface, it was originally a bit of a hassle to save up vacation days all year, pushing aside requests (indignant pleas from a few of them) from various folks to take some days off to spend time with them, as well as being somewhat diligent about putting aside over $2000 to cover the cost of airfare alone, money to renew my passport and visa, money for out of pocket vaccinations, plus enough money to cover December’s bills, and then a little bit of spending money during the trip. Packing is always a chore – and that 20-24 hour flight time to India is just physically and mentally grueling.

The trip here was surprisingly and eerily painless. I could not have asked for a smoother trip. The deeper discussions of renewal and perspective started to surface right before my flight. Initially, the trip seemed like a family vacation to me. How many times have I gone to India? Summers and winters, every handful of years for each decade I’ve been alive. Bug spray and cotton clothing in tow, scheduled weekly Malaria pills, the ever-present worry of your insides blowing up from some stomach bug you’ve caught from something you’ve greedily gobbled up without thinking twice about it. This trip already had a different tone. I didn’t care about the little discomforts that I groaned over as a kid. It was going to be an adventure this time, I wanted to eat everything presented to me, take in as much as I could. It’s one thing to say life is too short and that you should just eat up life – it’s another to learn the hard way that life is too damn short, which I have.

Somehow, everybody else seemed to know this particular trip to India was more of a pilgrimage of sorts before I even did.

Pilgrimages, to me, don’t always really need to be based on religion in the strictest sense, but each person has their own beliefs and what they hold dear. For one – the link to my mother country started out with food, of course. I met up with Gregory, an atheist who probably would say his only real religion would be all things edible, is a CIA graduate and chef [no, he’s not a chef-government spy who throws kitchen knives at bad guys (but HOW cool would that be?) – CIA is the Culinary Institute of America], for brunch. He proceeded to order copious amounts of freshly made food from one of his favorite Southern breakfast spots and stuff me silly, so that it be my last good meal before I headed on the plane to eat pre-packaged preservative-filled single serving proportions. I took the other half of the rye sandwich he ordered with me on the plane to supplement my scanty dinner. Of course he’d order a rye sandwich, I had remarked to him at the time with a mouth full of pancakes, all the while reaching for the braised brisket he also ordered. He’s a Jew.

“I’m making Chicken Tikka Masala this week for my staff,” Gregory announced, “and technically, it’s British, not Indian, but I make a really mean dish.” He continued to tell me how he made his version, and I could already feel my mind whirring about how my mother made Indian food, which she learned from her mother and then perfected, adapted to America’s available foods and spices, and improvised even more recipes over the years. His was a great adaptation to save a little bit of time compared to the traditional method. Just like you can’t hurry love, you can’t hurry good food, but prepping it in a great way with care can make for less hassle down the road.

Funny how food can bond people, and how it is cross-cultural. As he verbally cooked his dish step by step for me, it made me smile that Gregory can make dishes that my family has eaten for ages, and that he has worked in a top-notch Indian restaurant to learn such. Just hearing him talk about cardamom, clove, turmeric, cinnamon, and other spices made my heart heat up as warm as the spices themselves (he pretty much had me at “sweat the onions in a hot pan”, but that’s just my foodie crazy passion coming through – I know somebody out there has got to understand). It made me smile even more that a smart-mouthed, scrappy Jewish boy from Long Island could make perfect Chicken Tikka Masala, along with a slew of other Indian recipes that he learned from a restauranteur born in Goa, whereas I still don’t know how to cook most Indian dishes even with a perfectly fabulous cook in my own family – my mother – and get flustered at the prep, time, and process of making Indian food. How embarrassing. “Eat a lot in India,” directed Gregory, and narrowed his eyes at me, and with the dry and completely politically incorrect humor that I totally appreciate, added, “Don’t come back with any parasites though.”

Another chef in my life had a different perspective about India. Michael Angelo (Michael for short) comes from Sicilian heritage and also grew up in Long Island. Michael and I have been through pretty much thick and thin since 2007*, as I met him after Paul died. Michael and I bonded instantly since like Paul, Michael had Sicilian roots. [And by the way if I didn’t believe the Universe worked to put certain folks in my life before, meeting Michael after Paul died, and then meeting another cocky Long Island chef, Gregory - all within separate occasions and situations - confirmed my belief in that]. Besides knowing all of his grandmother’s Sicilian dishes (and pork-based gravies that are sinfully rich and delicious), Michael was trained as a chef in France, but traveled in India quite a bit in his younger years. He delved into Indian culture through its rich spiritual history, and lived among holy men in an ashram. He studied various Indian philosophies and holy books while there. The Bagavad Gita, Mahabarat, Tagore’s Gitanjali, for starters. Growing up in America, I only got snippets of certain parts of my own religion and culture. Michael would tell me tales of Krishna as it pertained to his life as a political activist, warrior, and trusted advisor. I would listen wide-eyed since he always seemed to put things in a way that was familiar to me.

While Michael lived in India, he learned Indian dishes and now knows the nuances that flavor culture and food together. He and I would go to Indian restaurants or we’d eat at my house. He sat down and looked graciously at his food. He instinctively would take his hand and mix his rice into the daal (lentil side dish) or whatever gravy-based dishes were piled on his plate and he’d begin to relish his food as he ate. I’d pick up my fork and start to eat and then Michael would look up from his plate and give me this look. It was a classic Sicilian look. From being with Paul for almost 9 years, and having a Greek girl friend for almost that long, I can read a Mediterranean person’s eyes like a book now. It’s that look of sheer parental disappointment, a flicker of fire as though that person’s patience was being tested, coupled with a baffled feeling of “Wow…..really?”

“It should tell you something that I do not use utensils to eat this food, whereas you are,” Michael said slowly, looking straight into my eyes, using his calm baritone voice to reason with me as he usually did, “You should learn to use your hand as this food was intended.” After spending over a year of time with Michael, I have learned how to eat with my hands properly without making too much of a mess. I can pick through the boniest of fish with ease. The savory gravies typical of Indian food no longer slip past my palm, nor run down my arm like it used to. Just a side note – in fact – my relatives in India have been unduly impressed that I can eat with my hands and can eat foods and textures that their own children raised all their lives in India won’t eat. Go figure.

Michael’s spirituality weaves through several religions and his views are based on a past that include several lifetimes of experiences crammed into his 30-something years of life. He was excited for me that I was going to India. As we approached the airport, he said thoughtfully, “You’ll gain so much peace there, you need to restore balance from within. I wish I could go there again,” Michael said. “Try going to the temples – the energy will be good for you.”

“You’re a practicing Christian now – and dubbed yourself a Hindu before. How can you change your religion faster than your underwear?” I teased, glancing at him as I drove to the airport, but knew he’d have a good response, despite me trying to needle him. “They are facets of similar beliefs that I prescribe to. They’re just called something different from different groups,” he explained. “Ahhh….so, just like how a Knish, Samosa, and Empanada are very similar, there’s a common thread with religions and basic philosophies of human nature, right?” I surmised. I have always liked talking in terms of food – it just always made so much sense. “Precisely. Good analogy.”

Another best friend, Irene, a tell-it-like-it-is passionate Greek girl who used to be my next door neighbor for a number of years, simply said to me before leaving “Don’t take this the wrong way, but forget all about us when you’re there in India. Leave all this behind. Go find yourself. I want that Bengal Tigress in you that has been dormant for a while to come out again. I see it in your eyes – it’s still there. I want that sexy, sassy fire back. I LOVE that girl.” I miss that girl too, actually. Various phone calls from other friends bade me farewell and wished me a safe journey, in all shades of the sentiment.

As I approached the time to board my flight, I realized that I needed this trip. I needed to get away from my own life: my routine, my place, my fears. I didn’t think the trip to India would be a means to fly like a bat out of hell away from my life as I know it, though I’m sure I acted like it sometimes; I’m fully mature enough to know that my life and whatever is tied along with it will still be there when I get back, but sometimes it’s good to step away and step back to examine things. What I didn’t realize is how much the trip to India would make me realize little things about myself, my past, my family, and even everything tied to 2007*, and could help me get some perspective on what’s to come in my future.

I got on my plane from Atlanta and teetered on my tippy toes to put my overnight bag up in the compartment above me, trying desperately for it not to crash on my head since I’m so short – and settled into my seat. Not too long after, an Indian guy nearly my age sat down next to me. We started to get into conversation later over our bento-style airfare hobby kit meal, which fit perfectly on the miniscule fold out tray under our chests. Hmmm. Fight Club had been whirring in my head, complete with its Zen Buddhist undertones. I was calm as a Hindu cow. I was actually slightly dismayed I didn’t have a briefcase full of handmade soap to show him…I actually can make French-Milled soap, hah.

The guy’s name, speaking of Buddhist undertones, was ironically Siddharth. We talked for ¾ of the trip from Atlanta to Frankfurt, practically about our entire life story. The usually monotonous trip that takes 9-12 hours for the first half, breezed by. He had recently gone back to school to finish off another degree. We got some Bailey’s from the stewardess and sipped on that as we gabbed about engineering, technology, biology, the universe, physics, spirituality, family, relationships, friendships, goals, and of course, food, and whatever else you can think of that you can squeeze into a super long flight. Since he was back in school for biomedical engineering, he was interested in delving into what I knew about seizures from handling Paul’s seizures as well as my dog’s seizures. I later found out he had done research on epilepsy and had written about seizure activity in terms of how the biomedical field can do more to try to prevent episodes from happening. He was fascinated about my observations and readings about sodium and potassium imbalances in the nervous system, diet, as well as weather patterns and barometric pressure affecting seizure activity. Seemed like the Universe was at it again putting in strategic folks at key moments. Among our conversation, something he said stuck with me, “Our lives are different from our parents’. Our focus is not only to build a life and create a family and help it thrive, but we were raised in such a way that we can now be happy with how we achieve those things, we don’t have to settle for a type of lifestyle that doesn’t make us happy. It doesn’t matter how long it takes to get there, if you have obstacles, or change your path in careers and such – it’s an ongoing process. It’s a journey.”

I landed in Frankfurt and Siddharth and his parents were off to Saudi, while I made my way to the Calcutta terminal. He was by far the most interesting single-serving friend I’ve ever had.

I watched the movie “Julie and Julia” inflight and thought of all the chefs in my life. It inspired me to learn a few recipes while I was in India and to finally push my mother and other relatives to teach me some recipes that have been in the family for generations. My grandmother was a superb cook and absolutely loved to eat. Her arms, legs and belly were like puffed pillows enveloped in a clean white cotton sari, her gait was deliberate and plodding from her delightful plumpness and flat feet, and you could always hear her coming because she had a huge set of antique keys for the entire house tied to her sari’s aachal (the part of the sari thrown over the shoulder), tinkling with every step. Her saris were washed so many times that they were incredibly soft. Hugging her was like burying yourself into a cool mass of fluffy clouds. Her stoutness suited her wonderfully and all children loved her. Having her long hair meticulously pulled back in a coiled bun and her round eyes behind large glasses sitting on top of a round nose only added even more roundness to her already round cherubic face. She was adorable. She would put so much love into her cooking and would watch with glee when people ate. Learning some recipes would be a wonderful way to honor her and keep a part of her and the culture alive.

When I finally reached the Calcutta airport, I found myself inhaling the familiar smell of smog, grit, diesel, polished marble and kerosene, and tears came to my eyes for a split second. I was not going to see my grandparents this time. I got herded through several lines of weary travelers and went through a long line of temperature sensitive screening for fever/H1N1. I found myself trying to coax my tongue and mouth to form Bengali words to airport staff and completed my foreign traveler paperwork. I’ve always thought that Bengali could be called the French of Indian languages: they both are rather mellifluous and require the same pout and pucker. For some reason, I thought they wouldn’t understand my accent, since it’s made up with not only an Americanized cadence, but is also laced with a Texan twang with a few Michigan and New Jersey inflections. I half expected to hear “What in the world did you just say?” – but nobody communicated or even insinuated anything of the sort.

An airport porter offered his services with my baggage since I had a few large suitcases: gifts and such that my mother had pre-packed in Humongo Suitcase Number 1, and my own clothes in Bigass Suitcase Number 2. In my small overnight travel suitcase, I had a fresh set of clothes to change into for the Frankfurt to Calcutta portion of the flight, some toiletries, and a fat copy of Atlas Shrugged, a book that both Paul and Gregory insisted that I read, for it stood for a lot of what they believed in. I have since gotten another book while I’ve been here, Tagore’s Gitanjali, something Michael urged me to get. Both books are sitting harmoniously with each other. I was amused. West…meet East.

I’m in the country of my ancestors again. The last time I’ve come to India was in 2003. Ancestry is easy to remove oneself from to a degree, but being here in India now that my grandparents are gone, is hitting some things within me that probably would not have been triggered before my grandparents’ or Paul’s death. I’m seeing India perhaps, the way my grandparents would have wanted me to see it, loving it the way they did. I’m seeing the sites, absorbing the energy, and taking in how they wanted family and life to be. At the same token, I am also seeing the changes that are trickling through Calcutta, and my Western and Eastern sensibilities (and insensibilities) are kicking into high gear, some of which I may put to print later.

As the days wore on, my mother noticed my own suitcase (Bigass Suitcase Number 2). I had brought just enough clothes that I could wash them a few times and brought specific pieces for certain occasions. I was covered. I was well underneath the luggage weight limit whereas my mother had feverishly weighed every single suitcase to the ounce each day she packed to stay under the 50 pound limit and was getting into a stressful tizzy over it prior to leaving the States. If anything, I wanted bring something with me back. My mother looked through my clothing and remarked with obvious distaste, “You pack like a pauper.”

I looked my mother dead in the eye, gave her a small smile, and with fully loaded intent, replied about my baggage, “I’m trying to pack light.”

——— · ———

2007. Sigh.

2007 was one of those years that will be burned in my memory, of which the reverberation of that shattering year is something I still battle with from time to time. So many people died that year, including some friends. I’ve had some time now to grieve, but I hadn’t removed myself at all from walking through broken shards of hopes and expectations, isolation and despair over love and a future together lost. I had also been feeling pretty heinous with something chronic for years, something I needed surgery for, but was waiting for an opportune time. I finally had the surgery late in 2007 and my health drastically improved since then.

As I stepped foot in India, it dawned on me that even though I may have come a long way since 2007, in many ways, I had just adapted to walking amongst the rubble and broken pieces without any of it cutting me to the core anymore. In the most bleakest of realities, all of my usual poetic analogies aside – Paul’s death left me a ghost myself: I walked around in Atlanta in places we’ve been, drove through roads we’ve driven through, went to shops we’ve browsed, roamed the neighborhood we both lived in. I was still living the same life for while after Paul passed away, only I didn’t have Paul by my side. It was a comfort at first to live that kind of life – it was familiar. It has since become increasingly stifling. I’ve gotten accustomed to it, and I’ve tied some new memories within the vicinity, but in the back of my mind, I know at some point I’m going to have to break down the remainder of what is familiar and leap forward, not just tiptoe ahead. I do a little bit here and there, and most people, including myself, can see a good amount of change, but the gnawing and restlessness within is telling me that it isn’t enough.

Still, I have to remind myself not to discount how far I’ve come up to date. I remember that there was a time in 2007 when I dreaded Fridays and the weekend since that’s when I would have normally, had Paul been alive, spent time with him after a long work week. That life stopped so abruptly, I found myself lost. I’d drag myself out of work and drive home, eyes bleary to the point I couldn’t even see the road, and wondering just how long the weekend would feel this time. I would stay in bed all weekend and either sleep or stare at my walls. It was Michael who got me out of that – he unfortunately understood all about losing somebody that close: he lost his fiancée to breast cancer in 1998. On top of that, he was a trained social work counselor in New York and could handle troubled people and crisis situations. I was fed up trying to look for grief counseling groups: most widows are in their 60’s to 80’s and groups such as “Lesbians With Cancer” hardly seemed appropriate. I remember being upset one day and wishing I could have a friend (I specifically thought a guy friend would be nice) that would understood me and my situation, got my cartoonesque humor, and ate everything under the sun like I did. I wanted somebody to get me like Paul got me. It was almost 2-3 weeks later that Michael walked into my life.

On Saturday mornings, he’d call my cell phone, “Good morning, Sunshine.” I glanced at my clock, gritty drowsiness still weighing my eyes down. My heart was already heavy and worn with grief. I wanted to just rot in bed, honestly. “Morning. It’s 8:00. On a Saturday.” “Yes, it is,” Michael would say cheerily – I could hear some background noise and air blowing. He must have been in his car or outside somewhere. He inhaled his cigarette and breathed out, “which is exactly why you have to get out of bed and meet me at Starbucks for coffee.” “I don’t really drink coffee…” I slowly muttered. “Come ooon,” prodded Michael. Though he had been professionally trained to get rid of his Long Island accent for a more neutral one, the accent still lingered on a few key words, “You know you want to – you wouldn’t want to disappoint a friend, would you? I know you’d looooooove to keep me company and sit with me to talk. Get up and meet me here by 9:00.” “Mmmrrfff…OK.” And so the healing process began.

When my grandfather and grandmother passed away the same year (2007), the blow didn’t faze me as much as it should have. Shock and grief had already numbed me, or maybe I was already open and vulnerable, it’s always hard to say which, so any more tragedy didn’t make much more difference. After the love of your life dies suddenly in your arms and you had no chance to say goodbye, your very being and soul, in its innermost core, just breaks, and eventually you no longer feel human. It’s not until much later that things start to feel real again.

I feel very much real now. Maybe more so now than ever in my life. It’s wonderful.

To say that 2007 was a swift kick in the ass from childhood to adulthood is an understatement. Even though I’ve matured quite a bit in a really short span, there’s still some glaring things about me that aren’t mature at all. I have friends and family who delight in that and say things like “You have such a wonderful innocence about you – keep that!” while there are other aspects of that same personality that make friends and loved ones who know me best tear their hair out in exasperation. Some of that immaturity is good, some of it ain’t so cute. Both stare me in the face lately, which it had not before. I find this to be a good thing – to be introspective.

I spent a lifetime being scrupulous and planning for things I want, goals to be achieved. I planned and still had fear that if I wasn’t disciplined enough, that plan wouldn’t be materialized. If something wasn’t perfect, I’d frustrate myself and abandon it eventually, or not do it at all from the get go. I was downright anal retentive. This kind of mentality left very little room for spontaneity, mirth, and just…life. Sure I had a life. It was a good one. Sure I had joy. But I had built a very tight cage around myself without even knowing it. After Paul died, I let go of all that discipline to the point that it was even more destructive in another way. The pendulum had swung the opposite direction. I was upset and eventually angry. I felt cheated, like I had been had. What happened to doing the right thing and achieving your goal if you wanted it enough and worked for it? I figured that if I had been such a planner and everything went to hell anyway, what was the point? Or even if it had nothing to do with your own efforts, but karma and being a good person instead – didn’t that count for something? That obviously wasn’t enough either. Well, what the hell was it then? The question of free will versus fate plagued my mind. I no longer cared about anything. That’s not good either. There’s a definite balance that has to be made. I’m doing my best lately to bring that balance back.

It’s always a shame, and I know I’m not the first one to say this – you never know what you have until it’s gone, including realizing how precious life is in itself. “Get busy living, or get busy dying” (Shawshank Redemption). Fight Club’s Tyler Durden’s words used to come out of Paul’s mouth and now come out of my own, “Only when you lose everything are you free to do anything.” He always knew how to squeeze every drop out of life. I now try to live up to that same philosophy, and share it with everybody in hopes that it inspires people somehow, or at least, encourages them to not take certain things for granted. Paul always did appreciate my ability to love so freely and unconditionally. I had decided after his death that I would continue to do as such, there’s such a shortage of pure love in this world. One more quote and I swear I’ll quit them for this piece – “Only love can leave such a mark, but only love can heal such a scar” (U2, “Magnificent”).