By the Banks of the River Ganga I Sat Down and Wept

Eufemia, to the ceiling: Papa, I'm awake, wide awake again. It's the middle of the night, actually morning, and Rishikesh is closed, I mean I feel like all of India is closed. It's unbelievably quiet, for India.

Papa from inside my neural pathways: E perche piangi, chittalone, tesoro perche stai piangiare? (Why do you cry, little one? Dearest why are you crying?)

Eufemia: It's 3 a.m. and all I want to do is pick up the phone and call you when it's like this, so quiet. And when I'm like this, so restless. And because I can't call, all I can think about is the day I won't be able to call you at all.

Papa: That's life chittalone. Ma nin pensare questi cose mo. Ti da dormire. (But don't think of these things now. You need to sleep)

Eufemia: I'm trying.

Papa: I see. Tonight you drink two milk espresso after 8 o'clock, I don't think like this you try very good.

Eufemia: I had a craving. For the familiar, for your company.

Papa: And now again you no can sleep.

Eufemia: No. And I was, I am feeling a little scared. Delhi! By myself!

Papa: It's better you no tell me these things.

Eufemia: Don't worry, I won't.*

Blogger's note: Real Papa thinks I've been travelling with the same friend for these past 5 months, though he asks questions all the time, the same questions I would ask if I suspected my daughter was fudging the truth to keep me sane and happy. The same questions I would ask if I heard the same exhaustion, loneliness and fear in her voice he sometimes hears in mine. I do my best but some things slip through. Neural Pathways Papa, being a holographic, holo-deck kinda Dad, can do no other than represent the real McCoy.

Eufemia: Yesterday, I washed my face in the Ganga.

Papa: Is this why you no can sleep? No, I think it's the espressos.

Eufemia: Yes, you're right. It's the coffee.

Papa: I can hear all these thinking inside your head with me. You thinking too much. What quiet India? You hear? You here is make lots of noise for you.

Eufemia: Yes, I know.

And for the third time since midnight I get up and turn on the lights. The clock says it's now 3:15 in the morning. Six more hours before my favourite cafe opens. Six more hours before I can order a banana lassi. I do what I always do when I get stuck like this without a book because I have clearly taken leave of my senses: write it down, write it down, write it all down.

By the River Ganga I Sat Down and Wept
For all the things I did and did not do
for what I accomplished and what I did not
for the beggars I helped and those I ignored
for the friends I made and the ones I didn't
for the books I read and the ones I skipped
for the sun, the moon and the stars
for the sleepless nights and nights of supreme slumber
for the dreams I remembered and the ones that disappered
for the food I ate and the meals I missed
to say nothing of the ideas I barely digested
for the past that wasn't and the future that isn't
for struggling so hard to be here now
again and again
for the feelings of familiarity and the sense of contempt it breeds
for the feelings of alienation and the sense of longing it brings
for belonging nowhere and everywhere
at the same time
for being born in the First World
to parents from the Third World
and never fully realising before
these blessings were second to none

Papa: Okay, Dante, now go sleep.