Sometimes a story becomes part of you, the way your morning routine of brushing and bathing and eating does. While I am the shower, I think of things Asya would say. Think of how Amla would feel.
There are some stories that reside in you. Awhile ago, I wrote a story about two lovers during a mosque attack that had happened in the 90’s in India. Sometimes, I go back to it and read it, feeling it all over again.
This story, will be like that. I can feel it.
Something
about the way
the ground felt
on her American heels
Unsteady, but ready
Emotions of a new path ran through her toes
Each step
The feeling of raw earth
Like a child learning to walk
Voices filled her
Heart.
Her grandmother’s
sister, brother, best friend
Sounded like roots
Familiar, but distant
Loving
With a strength
that stayed with her.
More than just memories
Scents seeped into her mind
Ginger chai with tulsi leaves and fresh mint
were her aunt’s prayers in the morning
pencil shavings and old book pages
and she was beside her cousins who studied until late hours of the night
Folds of silk saris,
bowls of turmeric,
gasoline seeping from rickshaws
and she was at the market
drinking fresh coconut water with her mother.
Something
about the way
the air fell on her skin
that encompassed the rhythm of a whole city
of a place that started
to feel like
home.
spiritual or something
kind of like…
visiting a past life
she was still living in.
This rhythm…
that was hard to find a genre for
wasn’t the jazz of NY,
or new age of California
It was complex
Like some underground joint no one ever heard of
mixed with
a beat she couldn’t get out of her head,
lyrics that she started humming,
Like a song she always knew.
it was just…
something…
She always knew.
Mostly, Sima remembered their smiles. The shy way they averted their eyes when she asked them their names, their ages. The way they were surprised when they replied with a Christian name and she insisted on knowing their Ugandan name. The children’s faces, their timid voices, their silent appreciation when she treated them or educated them, stayed with her, had filled her heart, expanding it in a way she never knew possible, in a way that made her ache, a true, to the bone ache- the way she felt when she watched documentaries on human rights issues, the way it came to her when she passed begging children on the streets of Delhi. But this time, it stayed with her for longer than before.
When she first arrived, she was excited, scared, but finally there. She was there, she thought and it was the first time she was somewhere that felt so beautiful, both outside and even, within herself. Luwero was in no way Spain or Hawaii or Costa Rica, the places she had been where awe was easy to find in sparkling blue waters or cliffs surrounded by gardens. Here, she found it in the pink painted doors of mud buildings, in the mango and jackfruit trees that surrounded her, in the mothers holding their babies in vibrant green, blue, red, yellow blended cloth.
When people asked Sima, “What was it like?” It was hard for her to put into words the emotions, the images softly painted in her memories, the smells that she was sure filled her mind’s corners. The roads of Luwero reminded Sima of India, giving her the same nostalgia- the smell of raw gasoline from the boda boda motercylce taxis, the long paths that let dirt fill the air with each step, indian style chapati food stalls on the sides of roads.
She thought of the history of her own people in Kampala, from India, building businesses in a new city, living amongst a culture so different and similar to their own, adding their own influence with food, indian restaurants and temples that scattered the city, even still. She felt a familiar grounding when she saw Gandhi’s statue at the Nile and felt the history of her ancestors connect her to a place that at first seemed far away from anything she had ever known. She thought of the Indians who had been rushed out of the country by a corrupt government to return back to India, with dreams shattered; ties broken.
When she went back to NY and California, she tried to fall back into place with her everyday- planning her wedding after her recent engagement, dinners with her family, meeting friends. She planned her trip to India for wedding shopping, but researched NGO’s she could volunteer for during her free time. She saw her upcoming journey with a new set of eyes and a freshness in her heart that made her feel ready for anything.
It was at night when she thought of the frustration she felt for Uganda. The ongoing political situations, the hardships the women she met faced everyday, the stories of war, of the Congo, of young boys taken to be Rebels, of young girls being raped without any protection or justice for their pain from society. She thought of the fate of the children, mainly, the girls, that she treated or educated for oral hygiene, but spoke to about dreams, likes, dislikes. What is your favorite color? What school subject do you love? What do you want to be when you grow up? Questions that perhaps no one had ever asked them, their responses vivid and full of life. Her fears for them seeped into her heart, stayed and stayed with her at night, into the morning when she woke up.
You can leave Africa, but Africa never leaves you. She had heard the quote said by a volunteer in the guesthouse she stayed in during her time there.
Africa, in fact , had stayed with her like the volunteer had said, and with it, brought a whole new chapter for Sima. She found peace in helping people who needed it the most. Perhaps, she thought, it was her dharma. She was ready to let her heart unfold to this place where spirituality went hand in hand with her purpose, her dharma, as she often heard her grandmother speak of finding as one. And Sima knew that now that she had found it, in her heart of hearts, it was something that would never leave her.
See my challenge section! Short stories to be published soon, including this one 
