Snapshots
By Meera Ramamoorthy
My father and I traveled to his home country of India last summer. We stayed mostly in the city of Bangalore with his family. It was my third trip, but I had few memories of Bangalore—it is safe to say that I underwent something of a culture shock upon arrival. When I returned home, I had many different recollections of our trip, and I wished to tie them all together. This article is the end product, a mix of my emotions and observations about the city of Bangalore.
I’m still not sure how I got here. I’m climbing the steps to my uncle’s apartment in Bangalore. My father and my cousin Krishnaa climb ahead of me, happily chatting away. With each step my legs feel more and more like gelatin, and I have a sudden fear of toppling backwards. I blink several times. We have reached the door. Krishnaa knocks lightly, but the door opens mid-knock. A small man with a stubbly chin wearing a knit hat stands in the doorway squinting at us. My uncle, my Periappa. “Moorthy!” he says sharply, and he and my father embrace. He then turns to me and squeezes my arms with such force that I expect to see them on the ground within the next few seconds. He puts his arms around me, and I hug back. With great effort, I lift the corners of my mouth and feel my bottom lip crack. Inside, the apartment is dark, and my eyelids start to flutter. Krishnaa looks at me and smiles: “Jetlag?” Fifteen minutes later, I’m lying on a straw mat on a tile floor, fast asleep.
***
I have given up my battle against the dust in this city and have succumbed to trading my contact lenses for glasses. I watch the ground as I walk along the roadside, attempting not to stumble over the uneven stone sidewalk while trying to keep up with my father’s black tennis shoes. The honking and beeping assault my ears, and the dust from the street fills my throat. Lanes seem nonexistent; the cars, motorcycles and auto rickshaws beep, rush and swerve without rest, sending up clouds of dust. I dislike feeling so delicate. The locals simply walk into the traffic or on the street, and no one seems bothered by the dust. They hardly even blink. I look up, deciding to trust my feet. We pass a bright flower stand bursting with lilies, daises, all types of flowers, and I turn my head back to watch a woman in an orange sari purchase a bouquet. A few minutes later, I slow my pace as we pass a sweets counter, and I admire the colorful pastries. I start to count the number of these stands that we pass but lose track somewhere along the way. I smile. And suddenly I trip over a block of cement and nearly fall flat on my face. I touch my glasses, relieved to feel them intact, and decide that my feet are not to be trusted, after all.
***
I sit with Krithika, my cousin Uma's daughter, on the roof of our apartment complex, watching her face in the fading light. She talks about school and her dance competition, and I listen, feeling her words and the breeze wash over me. She tells me she comes up here often — “to be alone,” she says. Uma lives in a flat upstairs from her parents (my uncle and aunt), with her husband and her two daughters, Krithika and Amritha. Krithika is the older of the two girls—in fact, she is my age. She has grown even more beautiful since I last saw her. We were eight years old then, and I still remember her bobbing pigtails. Her long, thick, black hair hangs halfway down her back now, smooth from the coconut oil she applies weekly. I watch Krithika’s serious, kohl-rimmed eyes crinkle as she laughs about her friend Ramya and feel a smile crease my own face. I shift my gaze to look out over the city. All of the buildings are so close together that it seems as if they breathe the same air. I can see the silhouettes of more apartment complexes going up in the distance, skeletons in the evening light. The sun sinks below a gold-tinged palm tree, and I remark that dinner is probably ready.
***
Outside the apartment complex, my aunt waves violently and shouts at passing auto rickshaws until one decides to pull up next to us. “R. T. Nagar?” she shouts at the driver over the roar of the traffic. He gives a curt nod. I clamber in after my aunt and feel the torn, blue plastic-covered seat sink beneath me. As my father follows suit, the driver pulls a lever near his feet — the engine putts noisily to life, and the auto rickshaw tears onto the road. The road is so bumpy that at first I sit stiff as a rod, clutching my purse in my lap and bouncing into the air every few seconds. But after a few minutes, I feel my back relax into the seatback, and I learn to move with the vehicle. We swerve around cars, weave between trucks, and race motorcycles to the light — we are so close to the car on our left that I get the sudden urge to reach out and touch it. As we reach the light, I look out of the automobile’s open doorway and my mouth opens in shock. A motorcycle is tearing down the sidewalk; I watch in amazement as it cuts to the front of the line. My indignation is tripled when I start to see motorcycle after motorcycle zoom down the sidewalk and push in front of other vehicles. It’s as if they think of the sidewalk as their own private lane!
***
I look out of the auto rickshaw as we stop at a light, blinking violently as a bit of dust enters my eye. My father sits to my right, between my aunt and me. I can hear a baby crying somewhere over the noise of the engines, but I can’t place the sound. To our left is a badly paved sidewalk with people hurrying about, all intent on their own plans. Searching these faces, I find the source of the noise. A small girl—seven or eight years old—sits cross-legged on the sidewalk, dressed in a dirt-stained frock, her matted hair in pigtails. In her lap she holds a nearly naked baby, wearing a knotted string around its middle — its belly sticks out from hunger. The girl’s bony arms rock the baby back and forth, but the child is thrashing inconsolably. Her delicate face wrinkles as she struggles to hold it, and she makes cooing sounds with her lips, shaping them into an “O.” The baby continues to cry. The girl’s small chest heaves a sigh — she raises herself with difficulty onto her cracked, dusty feet, mutters something to her two younger siblings, and moves off into the road, holding the baby on her hip. I strain my neck to watch her, but I lose sight of her behind a Toyota. The two younger children skip around each other, kicking dirt and rubbing their faces. I force my eyes straight ahead. I refuse to see anymore. But the back of the truck in front of us becomes wavy and distorted as I try to look at it, and I feel tears on my lips. I stay quiet and turn my face away from my father and my aunt. Neither notices me.
***
I stand on the balcony, enjoying the sunshine. I place the old photo album on the worn red balcony tile and fiddle with the zoom feature on the camera. I shift the album so it is in the sunlight and center the viewfinder on a picture of my two cousins, little girls in the surf at the beach. I raise my finger to take the photo and suddenly sense the presence of something to my left. I turn my head slowly, and my heart stops altogether. Not more than twelve inches away is a gray monkey poised mid-walk on the balcony ledge, watching me intently. The intelligence in its eyes startles me, and my temples ache as blood pulses through my veins. I leave the photo album in its spot, and take a quivering step backwards. Clutching the camera, I start to edge through the door to the apartment, my eyes locked on the monkey’s gaze. “Periappa?” I call to the apartment. No answer. I peek out the door and see the monkey’s rear end as it trots to the end of the railing. I rush out onto the balcony and hastily lift the camera, trying to focus. The furry animal sees me and disappears over the edge. I sprint to the end of the balcony. The monkey catches my eye as it climbs down the railing and gives me a dirty look.
***
I step out of the apartment and the wind is temporarily knocked out of me. Ten-year-old Amritha, back from school, clutches me around the middle: “Akka Akka Akka! Play a game with me, Big Sister, will you?”
“Okay Amritha, what do you want to play?”
“I’ll teach you.
We spend the next half hour darting around the landing like minnows, slamming into the white walls and scooting around one another. Her small hands resting lightly on her brown knees, a grin plays across Amritha’s delighted face — she has me cornered. I give a false jerk forward, and she starts to pounce, her heels momentarily leave the ground. The tension builds, our eyes lock, each of us twitches in turn. I break for it, and she shrieks and catches me from behind. We crash into the wall, screeching with laughter. It is only then that I notice that my pants, shirt, arms, and legs are covered with white chalk. I trace my index finger along the wall and see the chalk rub off onto my fingertip. I laugh harder.
***
I clasp hands with Uma, and my tears waver on the edge of my eyes. I let them drip. Her own eyes are blurry, and her kohl runs. “Come again soon,” she chokes. “Yes,” I whisper even though I know it will be a long, long while before I see her again. Amritha looks up at me, her pretty face forever smiling, and takes my hand.
“We will miss you, Akka.” I put my arms around her and squeeze until they give out. Uma takes her daughter’s hand, and they turn to go. I stand there feeling numb and dull, and then I hear a yell. Three arms are waving at me, crammed through a car window—the two small ones belong to Amritha, the larger one to her mother. Uma smiles, and I wave till my arm grows sore, even after the car disappears into the distance.
Meera Ramamoorthy is a student at the Liberal Arts and Science Academy in Austin, Texas. She enjoys writing and also studies classical Indian dance, which she has been studying since she was eight years old. She traveled to India last summer with her father in order to visit family.