Remnants of my Mehandi still reflect on the palms of my hands and sides of my feet. My fingers meet my palms as I rub them lightly against it. I look down at the top of my hands and then at my palms, flipping my hands back and forth with determination in hopes of some kind of hidden revelation. My days in India are obscure. They seem to hide between Reverie and Reality. Itâs as if Iâm depending on Her, a tattooed memento of India, to help me remember, recall the details that swept by me in haste leaving nothing but a foggy picture. Its deep red color (which they say the darker the Mehandiâs reflection on your skin, the more your husband loves you.) has ceased, resembling leftovers of what once was beautiful artwork.
It was only a matter of time before I would be asked, âSo what did you like about Bombay,â my husbandâs friend asked me while sitting on our vibrant blue Victorian look-a-like chair which has some resemblance to Indian patterns. Â My eyes casually shift to my husband and then back to his friend, as my mind makes the attempt to conjecture a single word, and if I was lucky, a sentence that can prove I was even in Bombay. I hadnât been asked about India since my return. (After two weeks, Iâm still trying to defeat my jetlag as waking up before sunrise has become a curse. I have had no time to gather my thoughts, organize them and make sense of them.) My thoughts flickered in my mind and all I saw was that accursed fog hovering over my memories.Â Muddled thoughts pushed through and made their surface with speediness. It was like a fog evaporating over the hilltop wanting to reveal itâs hidden beauty to passers-by, yelling, âWait! I have something for you to see. Just give me a minute.â
-âI liked the dhobi ghat.â What the hell did I just say? I liked the dhobi ghat? What am I? Five? That sounds like a child who canât think of anything better to say after spending an hour outdoors running up to me, exasperated, sharing the latest breaking news, âThe grass is green.â Or, âThe sky is blue.â Â His eyes were fixed on me, and I couldnât discern if they were startled at my stupidity or sincerely still interested. I got my response within minutes. He asked again, âSo what else did you like about Bombay?â Â My first response was clearly mind numbing. I looked outside my window and fixed my eyes on the lamppost that stands diagonally from my view as the words came out of my mouth, âThe slums were interesting.â Whatâs wrong with me? I sounded like a nimwit. I may have well said, âI liked the foodâ, or âThe people were neat,â Â (which by the way, I despise that word âneatâ when used as an adjective to describe a person or place. It shows a lack of depth.) Â A perfectly coherent, simple question was asked and I stumbled over my words. I became mute. It was shameful. He asked me that question thrice, and with little integrity left, I surrendered. (My loathings are quite simple, stupidity being at the top) I was waving the white flag as I asked him to pardon my idiocy and scripted responses. I wanted out of that conversation so I ended it with, âI loved the culture.â So much for Redemption. I was disappointed at myself for failing to articulate the very sentiments that I do harbor of my experience in Hindustan, but how can I elucidate those feelings when everything still remained unexamined and opaque to me.