The Taste of Ginger(24)
“That’s very kind of you to ask,” I said, instantly liking him and thinking that his calm yet distinguished demeanor reminded me of Nana when he had been alive.
I was both surprised and intrigued that Anand Uncle was the first person in India who didn’t want to talk about work. For everyone else, it seemed to be the topic most squarely in their comfort zone, myself included. His eyes were inviting, making it easy to be honest with him. “The only thing I really want is some kind of distraction from all of this—even if just for a minute—but now isn’t the time for that either.”
He nodded solemnly. “Maybe not. But if you can find a moment to be happy or to laugh, it is worth taking.”
I mulled over his words. It was good advice. And it was nice to think that some of those moments would come again, because for the past few days, it hadn’t seemed like they would. I gave him a timid smile. “Thank you, Uncle.”
He offered his condolences again before he left the waiting room. I watched him leave, thinking that Biren was lucky. When dealing with my own parents, I’d always known to use a filter. But Anand Uncle seemed like someone his kids could easily open up to and approach when seeking advice about major decisions in life like careers, or family, or love. He seemed like the kind of parent Neel and Dipti would have been.
Uma’s funeral was two days later. Dipti’s father, Raj Uncle, had arrived the day before and had hardly left Dipti’s side. I didn’t blame either of them, but I could tell Neel felt even more shut out than he had before his father-in-law arrived.
In a caravan of cars, we made our way to the banks of the Sabarmati River. The pyre was already being built by the Brahman and his helpers. The tiny coffin rested at the center.
I, like the others, wore simple white clothing. White represented purity and was the traditional color of death in Hindu culture. My hair fell loosely down my back. An elaborate hairstyle would have been inappropriate. The breeze near the banks of the river blew through my hair, gently lifting and lowering the strands. The sand near the banks was a darker brown than the light grains on the beaches in Los Angeles.
Branches were organized around the tiny coffin. The baby’s body faced south, which I remembered was convention. The Brahman began chanting prayers in Sanskrit, his voice soothing and powerful. Occasionally, I heard him say Bhagwan and knew he was praying that God take care of Uma. My niece. My bhatriji.
This funeral was different from any other I’d been to. I’d never gotten a chance to know Uma, to hear her laugh, to spoil her with presents, to capture her smile through my lens. Still, the sense of loss weighed fully on me. It made me wonder whether the things I’d learned as a kid, like reincarnation, could exist. Maybe Uma was already in a better place, living a better life. Maybe Dipti’s mother had found Uma and was looking after her in another life. When faced with a situation such as this, I had to believe there would be more to her short life. And I looked at my own life and wondered whether I had done enough with it. The gift of life felt so precious, and I could not stop myself from feeling like I should be doing more with mine than writing briefs for the Warden. I was, after all, one of the lucky ones who got to live.
The pyre was built next to the riverbank, and we gathered around it, forming a semicircle away from the water. Thick logs of wood were interspersed with thinner branches, now totally covering the coffin.
The priest handed Dipti’s father a flaming branch and directed him to light the pyre to begin the cremation. I felt the heat graze my skin as the fire began to spread through the outer layer of wood. My knees went weak at the thought of a baby’s—not just any baby’s, but my niece’s—body being burned to ash. I wobbled before regaining my balance.
The priest chanted a mantra as the flames continued to spread to other segments. My mind flitted to the memories we’d never get to share. Uma learning to walk, trying her first bite of dal, her eyes lighting up when she saw fireworks, me teaching her how to make chocolate chip cookies. I’d been determined to make her feel protected and comfortable—ensure that if there was something she couldn’t talk to her parents about, then she could speak to me. Teach her that she didn’t always have to be strong—that sometimes it was okay to be vulnerable. I’d never get to say or do any of those things. More importantly, neither would Neel or Dipti.
The fire burned, spreading until each of the other branches and logs was fully consumed by the flames. The temperature around us had risen. Wind whipped through the air, not allowing the burnt smell to linger for long.
Neel covered his mouth, and when I saw tears stream down his cheeks and disappear under his hand, I couldn’t hold back my sadness either. A sob escaped from my lips, and I buried my face in the end of the dupatta that hung around my neck. I felt a soft cloth brush against my shoulder and looked up to find my dad handing me a handkerchief, his own eyes red.
Dipti, who had been standing stoically during the funeral, almost as if she weren’t in her own body, began to sway back and forth, like a shaft of wheat succumbing to the wind. She turned toward the skies, searching it, her expression hopeful.
“Mom,” I heard her whisper, “please take care of my little girl.”
Her dad squeezed her hard. “She will,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “They are together now.”
Hearing Dipti’s pleas to her mother was too much to bear, and I had to turn away to collect myself again. Even my mother’s reserved expression cracked. She looked as though if she let herself cry for a second, she’d never be able to stop. She looked so human, so vulnerable, more than I could ever remember seeing her. The gravity of the situation weighed on me. I wanted to reach out to her, to offer her some sort of comfort, but couldn’t bring myself to move. We had never had that type of relationship in which we acknowledged each other’s vulnerable moments, but I had often wished we did. Before I could convince myself to make the gesture, she gathered herself, put one palm against Dipti’s lower back and the other on her forearm to offer her support. The moment had passed.