A Homecoming of Sorts

I sat in the cafe in Kushinagar and ate breakfast with Harry, Anna and Paula, the trio of English gap year students, sipping chai thinking about their offer to join them for a bike ride through the rice paddies outside of the village. We'd had a wonderful time hanging out the last few days, but something felt just a little off.

I've started to become aware on this trip that not all offers of friendship and help are equal. Sometime people feel compelled to give out invitations not out of a genuine desire to offer support but rather out of a sense of duty or obligation or perhaps as a means to cover the guilt that they themselves feel for desiring what they desire. The less-authentic individuals among us extend such offers with bated-breath, hoping they will be rejected. This gives them a chance to have the best of both worlds, keeping what they want, but at the same time being able to tell themselves they are generous for having offered.

The problem arises when those of us who are open to receiving the free love that is available throughout the universe do not have the wisdom to distinguish between these false, non-genuine offers and those which are given without conditions. A bait-and-switch is presented, where one thinks one is accepting something given freely, but in reality the ground has been set for bitterness and resentment. It would be much simpler if we all lived in a world full of authentic people, where people only put on the table that which they were able to give freely. But, unfortunately, that does not happen to the be universe in which we reside. So it becomes our obligation to make sure that the gifts we receive are truly offered freely and not out of some sense of societal politeness.

I thought about what I should do and reflected on the last words of the Lord Buddha, uttered in this same village 2500 years ago right before he passed into mahaparanirvana ... "all things must pass" ... it had been one month since our group of three had left the safe confines of a city full of family for an adventure, and one more week since I had started wandering on my own. I looked at the group of Brits and let them know that it was time for me to return to Lucknow.

It took me another 36 hours of hard traveling to work my way back to Lucknow. Shared jeeps, rickshaw, trekking with my packs, one bus, a long train ride and finally a tempo and I was at back at my Seema-khala's house. She took one look at the dirt and grime collected on my body, my bags covered in filth, my hair pulled back in my choti and told me I had lost too much weight and looked like a sadhu, followed by a threat to disinfect me from head-to-toe. I felt terrible, physically exhausted and emotionally drained. It was good to be amongst loved-ones.

By a simple twist of fate my cousin Shaad and his wife happened to be in town, and Seema-khala's daughters Ghazal and Sana were arriving the next day. My Nani was staying with Nayara-khala and we had a chance to chat when she came to pick me up the next day to see her. Likewise she commented on my weight and found herself with mouth agape at a loss for words when I regaled her with the stories of my solo travels.

"Why do you do these things?" She asked. "Do you need more money?" It wasn't about the money I assured her. It was about living freely, embracing adventure, having faith in the universe to set things right, overcoming hardships and adversity to become a better, stronger person. She nodded like she understood, but I wonder if it made any sense to her at all.

Ghazal and Sana also commented on my weight loss, but I didn't really think much about it until I stepped on a scale. 61 kgs I thought ... hmmm ... I had to do some math before I realized that meant 135 lbs. which meant I had lost almost 20 lbs in the last month, putting me at my weight range from freshman year of college. "How did you do that?" asked Sana, genuinely curious I suppose. "Well, probably by meditating a bunch, doing tons of yoga and qi gong, not eating meat, not smoking, not drinking and walking an average of 5 kms a day. Oh and the food poisoning probably didn't help."

This trip through Lucknow proved to be much more relaxing, the newlyweds were back in the US and my friends were off in other parts. Just me, visiting loved ones, allowing myself to be nourished back to healthy by rich Mughlai cuisine,. Putting into practice that which I had learned, accepting that which was appropriate and politely declining the rest. After one week I left again, headed off to the foothills of the Himalayas, back in good health, ready to challenge myself ... armed with my backpacks and a bag with a prepared dinner and breakfast from my Seema-khala and cousin Sana, in need of nothing else.

A Son of Lucknow

"4 Times" Nida said with a sense of assurance in her voice that made me doubt the version of events. "Once before independence, once after independence and once in his seventies."

"That's only 3" I thought to myself. "Ghazal said something like 14." Samira agreed, she remembered it too, from just recently when Ghazal was in Madison and we all went met at my parents home to visit. Ghazal had just been flown into New York to attend a muppet conference. She played the part of Chamki from Gali Gali Sim Sim. Nida still insisted it was 4.

Rahil and his family drove in from Minnesota and Samira and Asma flew in from Ohio. We stayed up late into the night trading stories of family history. Our side of the family didn't have too much too offer but we listened intently as Ghazal regaled us with tales of how cool our Nana was. He had just passed a few months ago.

When I asked our Seema-khala she said yeah 14 times, but our Nani our corrected her. "18 Times! They used to hang them up and beat them. But still they would not stop fighting. No matter how many times he was arrested! 14 times before Independence. 4 times after, even when he was 70 he was in jail. 3 days he spent in jail cell."

I had heard about the last jail cell not too many years ago. It was after he gave a rousing speech to a crowd of striking Union Workers. A few of them took it upon to attack one of the managers. Nana was arrested for inciting a riot. Released 3 days later for lack of evidence.

We heard second-hand references to the stories he told about the rats which attempted to chew off his leg. He said he had to stay up all night to beat them off. It was one of his "Damned Fools" stories, because someone always played the part of the damn fool.

After he was released a crowd of workers carried him on their shoulders all the way back to my Nayara Khala's and Shahid Uncles apartment in Lalbagh. The neighbors were wondering what happened. There were no elections pending so he couldn't have been chosen to serve again.

He was a student leader during the Indian Revolution. Was arrested with Gandhi. He was a Freedom Fighter, but never signed up for the pension, because he said he never did it for the money.

My Nana, Muhammad Shakil stayed a staunch Communist up until his last days. He spent most of his time as a lawyer, some as a politician. A member of Congress. Some still refer to him as a Nawab of Lucknow. We never heard too many of Nana's stories growing up, since he passed last year I've been asking everyone I can about stories about him.

I even asked Vikas, the head pimp at charge we met presiding over his sisters wedding. When I mentioned Nana's name the entire room hushed. A raucous animated group of brides brothers and cousin-brothers fell silent ... and Vikas said it with that characteristic Indian sideways bobble. "He was a great man, a son of Lucknow." We had only met Vikas a few hours ago when they were attracted by the unsual sign of a ghora yogini walking down the streets Maria, Mike and I were soon invited into the wedding and fed and welcomed as guests. That Indian hospitality is something else.

At the internet cafe in Varanasi I got a vague promise from Ali to ask his parents for more stories. He was from Lucknow as well and we met while We met while Facebook'ing the girls we left behind.. I asked if they had heard of Muhammad Shakil. He knew the name but not too much more.

Nana was a true renaissance man. Still remembered for his poetry. A family story is told that on the night of their wedding he looked at my Nani for the first time and told her "Woman, even those raven locks will not tempt me, I am off to fight the revolution!" My mother loves reciting his verses, with a teary nostalgia in her voice.

My Nani dutifully supported him throughout all those difficult years while he was in jail. And all those years since. And my Nana returned to her over and over again, until a year ago last December when he finally passed. Throughout those years he composed more and more verses to her and her beauty and intelligence and continued to embody his beliefs.

Before I left Lucknow my Nani pulled me aside one more time and besieged me with love. "Kashif beta, this is no way to behave. Your Nana was not an ordinary man, but he was very orthodox with his family. He loved us, he would do anything for us. But he fought for what he believed in. He was a great man and he raised a family. It is high time you get married now and stop this wandering life of yours."

The great thing about my Nani is that it was only with the love and support of a woman like that was my Grandfather able to rise to such heights. Before their marriage, all the family told her to do anything but marry at Freedom Fighter, what chance has a cause like that got. But my Nani was no slouch in her own right, she was one of the Daughters of the Revolution, later training the next generation as the Dean of an all girls school. But that which would deter those who seek order and reason excited her.

I told my Nani not to worry. That I would make her proud. That my history had not yet been written and no one knew what my story would yet be. That maybe someday I would find a woman as strong and capable as she was, who would love me just as she loved my Nana. And just imagine what heights I could rise with that type of support!