She tried to wrap the silk scarves she had in neat bundles the way her mother had done for her when she went to college. The fabric was tricky though, smooth all over on the exterior with loose threads on the interior, like miniature saris, so they kept unraveling at each fold, until finally she tucked them in her suitcase underneath her favorite designer jeans, flattening them to increase the surface area of the things she needed to still find places for. She had packed and unpacked for years, 9 times, in and out of dorm rooms and apartments, becoming an expert at finding corners for things in suitcases and boxes; an expert at knowing what things to leave behind. Though this time she had some trouble in deciding.
She had a pile on her dresser she would take that reminded her of her friends, the New York print Nikki gave her, the pendant from her chakra balancing workshop at a retreat, the songs she wrote down to put on her ipod that reminded her of dancing with her closest girlfriends in the past summer nights. In that moment, she felt different about leaving NY, because unlike leaving for graduate school, she was sure it would be harder to say good bye to the things she knew so closely. Dinners with her girlfriends, the museums and shows she explored, the sounds of neighborhoods she had grown attached to. It was knowing she was letting go, of home, even temporarily, that made it hardest. What if she loved it there enough to want to stay? This was home, could that happen?
She lay her clothes out on her bed, her shoes lined in front of her closet, the movies she loved placed next to her carry on bag, a round tin of turmeric, poppy, fennel and the spices her grandmother knew she may crave. She had taken the same tin with her to college, being only half an hour away from home. In graduate school, she had her father mail it to her, when she realized she had forgotten it as she organized her small Bostonian kitchen with exposed brick and brownstone windows. In all the years she had only used it twice, once to make the chick peas her parents always made for her, but she had put too much tomato sauce in them and she let her roommate, Ashleigh, eat them, who adored the flavors that were new to her palate, the ones of Sima’s childhood that she tried to create but felt her American born hands had failed in doing so. While in graduate school, she often went to the Indian restaurant in Beacon Hill, where she enjoyed watching evening snow falls through the front window as she slowly let garam masala in fresh saag, fill her throat with warmth. This time she knew that there were Indian restaurants that lined the cove, there were stores she saw on her drive from the airport that would carry the things she needed, if she craved any part of home.
Yet even in knowing so, she still tried to find space for these things, she still held onto her tin of spices, still found room for her small ivory Ganesh idol, the incense her family would buy from the temple, the small Indian tea strainer that even caught the shredded ginger root that would slip through the American strainers her family had tried.
In preparation of her going, her sister threaded her eyebrows, plucking the fine hairs from below her arch, and she held her sisters knee as she always did, squeezing at each pull, observing in the end, the shapely arches, the red skin and white residual talc powder around her forehead. Sima had placed the powder on her brows herself, as her sister coiled the thread, but had missed most of her eyebrows, sending powder to line her cheekbones, lips, left ear. Her sister started laughing and like always, they doubled over almost crying. It took Mili 6 tries to finish, to finally get through it without one of them giggling. “Didi will you need this?” her sister held up the bottle of jasmine powder, the one her masi brought for her mother when she first came from India, that had lasted all these years. She wanted to take it for the smell, to always remember it, in case, she started forgetting.
“No I think ill be okay…” and so her sister left the room, taking the scent with her, of memories Sima would long for.
Her brother had left for college a few days ago, and she walked by his room, let her fingers run along the shelves she helped him organize before he left, the dorm check list she printed for him sitting on his desk. She felt excited for him and his new chapter in his life, and thought how ironic, a decade apart, in age they must have felt the same emotions about starting and ending these unpredictable stories.
She saw herself in him in moments when they had packed his things. He took two frames with him, one of their family, one of their grandfather, the same one they all had framed in their rooms, reminding them of him, his presence, his strength. Reminding them to make him proud. She had taken the same photographs with her, packed between books she couldn’t bear to leave behind, along with, of course, her journal. Her grandfather had chosen his name, Anuj, youngest brother, fitting for their family, who adored him as the baby, as their last one to grow up. And yet, now, in her grown up self she felt young again, scared to embark on anything new.
Her brother was ready he said, “I’m ready to be here.” And she prided in his confidence, in the adult frame of his tall lanky body that she once knew fit perfectly in her lap when she fed him his cereal on Saturday mornings as his favorite childrens’ show, Power Rangers, blared in the background. When she hugged him goodbye, in front of his dormitory, she felt him hug harder, for the first time that she could ever really remember, and when the tears came, she felt him soften, her in his chest, her younger brother. He swallowed once, did not cry and with a strong voice told her not to worry. Later sent a text message to her and her sister, saying I love you, a gesture that surprised them; it was unlike him to show emotion. Only 4 days there, he had already made her proud, by just being who he was in his new element. The past few days, they shared stories over the phone like they had never done in all the years she was away, in all the time she spent at home when she returned for her residency.
Her parents did not bring up her leaving until days ago. They let the days pass, thinking it was still far away, until her father and her sat in his office and he asked her, what she would need to order for supplies, and she said “Daddy I will be leaving next week, there’s no need to order anything for me now…”. He looked up and said out loud “Next week?” And she knew it was not a question for her, she knew he was just wondering where the time went, wondering if she knew how concerned he was of her future in her career, love, the things fathers carried in their hearts for daughters. And so he became quiet, the way his nature was, and touched her shoulder softly, the way his love was. The moment was hard for her, with all the fear and protection in his eyes, with his silent advice. She always felt deepest for him, her understanding father.
She would catch her mother looking at her when they worked together on patients, mistly eyed. Often she would hear her mother say ‘there is no one else like you’ under her breath, as if, like her father, thinking out loud. She would remember her childhood, making rotis after school as her mother ran home from work, ready to prepare dinner but always being so happy it was half done by Sima. Her mother, who, on most days, she butt heads with, arguing about things that didn’t seem to matter when she thought of how much she would miss her warmth, her hugs against her mushy body, malleable to Sima wherever she squeezed.
This morning, her grandmother had Sima’s chai ready for her the way she liked it, like she did every morning, with extra milk and only half a spoon of sugar. She kept Sima’s chai in the dark green mug, always, next to the stove with a cover on it. In Guajarati, she told Sima the tomatoes were ready in the garden, so they went, together, and picked the ripest ones. Her grandmother let her smell the fresh mint she used in the morning chai, showed her the baby cucumbers she would cut with dinner in which she would season with the blend of coriander and cumin powder that went on them. She had heard these things before, but Sima listened intently, still taking it in like it was new, letting her grandmother’s voice fill her heart. Her grandmother, in their native tongue, Gujurati, told her the house would be empty without the sound of Sima saying ‘Nani!” in the morning as she came down the stairs before reaching the kitchen, her grandmother stopping her morning prayers to kiss Sima on the cheeks, pulling her up if she bowed to her in respect. Sima helped her cut the unripe mangoes for the spicy pickle when they returned from the garden. Her grandmother boasted about the mangoes, since her sister had bought them from the Indian grocery store, saying Mili had picked the best ones.
Sima was proud too, of something so simple but symbolic of her sister learning the care needed to keep what Sima loved so much alive.
She often feared what will happen? Will her parents be ok, their age, the help they needed, her grandmother’s old age and comments of reaching God and felt guilty of leaving it all behind, keeping the guilt, intertwined with the love she would take with her, across the country, far from her comfort of home.
When she spoke to him on the phone, she wondered what fears he had, of what he anticipated, of how he too felt on their new path together. He was after all, the main force pulling her to the west coast. She was excited, juxtaposed with the fear she knew was natural to feel, but ultimately thought of the peace she had found in her decision, the one she knew, many people close to her had accepted, but swallowed with concern.
When her sister napped today, she lay at her feet, watching her peaceful breaths, careful not to wake her, just like she did when they were younger. She remembered when she would come home from school, Mili would be napping already after her day in nursery school, and Sima would be ready to explore their backyard together but would wait for Mili to wake up. She would sit like she did today, watching her sister, waiting, and remembered their youth how many times, she would fall asleep right there, the two of them side by side.
Teary eyed, Sima kissed her sister’s forehead, took the jasmine powder from her sisters room and packed it amongst the things she would carry.©
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