Monsoon Dances

Twenty years ago

It happened during dinner time. Amma was placing the food on the table when all of a sudden, it began to pour. I looked at her, my eyes asking a question, and she nodded. I rushed across the hall only to find Avi already waiting for me by the stairs. Together, we raced to the roof of our six-floor complex. Avi ran outside first, and I watched from inside as the rain beat down on his curls.

“Look, Alia, look!” Avi ran to the edge of the roof and stretched his arms, his palms facing the sky. “Alia, look! I’m flying like a bird,” he yelled.

Giggling, I ran up to him. Hand in hand, we threw our tiny heads back and felt the rain wash over our skin. 

When I told Amma the story later that night, she said that I had experienced my first monsoon dance. 

♢♢♢

Eight years ago

Right before he died, my father made me promise him two things. The first was to take care of Amma, and the second was to take care of myself.

Appa was a quiet man. He was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was seventeen and died when I was eighteen. I like to think Appa’s death was a silent one. I like to think that he had somehow prepared himself for it. Of course, I knew this was impossible. One could never be completely ready to die. 

Still, I like to think Appa was.

It rained the day of his funeral. I held Avi’s hand the entire time. Our heads were bowed, our arms limp at our sides, and all I could think about was how different this was from a monsoon dance. 

♢♢♢

Six years ago

After Appa died, I swallowed my own sadness to take care of Amma. On most days, Amma was strong enough to live with the loss of her husband. There were other days, though, when the smallest crack or misstep shattered her. There were days when the mention of Appa brought her down to her knees, sobbing so hard that all I could do was hold her. When her body was too exhausted to shed another tear, I helped her to bed. It was in these moments when I sat in our dimly lit living room after having put Amna to bed that I missed Appa the most. But Avi was there to hold me as I cried, and to bring me to bed when I couldn’t possibly shed another tear. 

♢♢♢

Three years ago

After three years, when I knew Amma could stand without my support, I fulfilled the second part of Appa’s wish. 

I booked a flight to Mumbai. 

Avi begged me to stay. 

“Your life is here,” he cried. “I’m here.”

Avi, who gave me my first monsoon dance, who held me after my father’s death, only asked for one thing in return. Stay. I left for Mumbai two days later. 

♢♢♢

One month ago

Dear Avi, 

I’m writing to you from somewhere in Mumbai. I miss you. I thought the endless train rides and strangers would cover you, Amma, Appa, and the pain like a fresh coat of paint. If only it were that easy. I don’t know if you’ve already heard, but I’m coming home. For good this time. 

Alia

I folded the letter in half, ran my tongue against the sticky parchment, and quickly, before I changed my mind, I mailed it. 

 ♢♢♢

Two weeks ago 

I called Amma to tell her I was coming home on a Saturday night. Rash and Rhea had left an hour ago, and a calming silence filled the flat. I sat on our balcony, entrapped by concrete buildings, as I dialed Amma’s number. She picked up on the first ring. 

“Amma, I'm coming home,” I said. 

“Kyon? Kya sab kuchh theek hai?” I heard the concern dripping off her voice. 

“Yes, Amma. Everything is fine. I just miss you.” Of course, this was only half of the reason why I was coming home. 

“Achchha. Aap kya khaane ke ichchhuk hain?”

Giggling into the phone, I replied, “Chapatis, Amma, lots and lots of chapatis.”

 ♢♢♢

One week ago 

My flight landed an hour ago. I found Amma waiting by the pickup line with worried eyes and arms full of food.

“You look skinny.” 

“Are you hungry?”

  “I made your favorite: chapati. Here, take.”

  I wrapped my arms around her and buried my face in the curve of her neck. She whispered my name and I heard her voice crack. We stayed like this for a few minutes, connected in a way we haven’t been for so long, until she pulled away. 

I leaned against her car, the hot Mumbai air sinking into my skin, as I finished the last piece of chapati. Amma watched me eat, her eyes warm, and I fought the urge to fling my arms around her again. I lost the fight. 

♢♢♢

One day ago  

I waited one week before I visited Avi. I told myself I was giving him time (as if two years wasn’t enough). 

I found him standing against the mango tree by our complex. His forehead was painted with creases from worries I no longer understood. But his curls still dangled in front of his eyes. He was still Avi. I watched as a smile crept onto his face. A smile he used to save for me. A smile that was no longer for me but for the woman and two little boys who ran into his arms. I was two years too late. 

♢♢♢

Today

I’m packing my suitcase for Mumbai again. Amma stands in the doorway, confused and sad that her only daughter came home just to leave again. Before I leave for the airport, I find my letter in Avi's mailbox, knowing well it would have taken him more than a month to discover it. I tuck the letter into the front pocket of my suitcase, and on a fresh piece of paper, and I write: 

Dear Avi, 

I’m writing to you from my flat in Mumbai. Every time it rains here I think of you. I know I said I’d only be here for a year, but a year turned to two, and now I don’t think I’m coming home. I hope you’re happy. 

Alia

I place the letter in his mailbox, the hot, dry Mumbai sun beating down on my skin.