Over dinner one night when the whole family had assembled in San Diego, Mallika recalled a scene from Kanika’s wedding just weeks before. Early in the morning of the wedding itself, the whole family had gone through a major crisis. My aunt—Kanika’s mother—had misplaced the key to the room where Kanika’s expensive jewelry and bridal dress had been very carefully stored. There were just a few hours left before the ceremony and poor Kanika was distraught because her worst fears were coming true. What would she wear?
In the chaos, everyone searched for the missing key. Tempers flared. There was a lot of finger pointing and blaming. I did my best James Bond impersonation, slipping a credit card in the crack of the door hoping it would unlock. No luck. My younger cousin Bharat threw himself at the door with all his weight—nothing happened.
Suddenly we saw Daddy ambling up the stairs, deliberate and slow. He held a ring of keys in his hands. None of them were the “right ones,” just standard keys for other doors and safes in the house. But that didn’t bother Daddy, nor deter him. While we frantically searched here and there like an unskilled forensic team emptying purses, pulling blankets off beds, and rummaging through the pockets of clothes, Daddy bent over, peering at the lock carefully. I tried to explain to him that the door would not open unless we found the right key.
He smiled and said softly with conviction, “No, it will open.”
Meanwhile my uncle—Kanika’s father—expressed his indignation and anger over what he observed had been a perennial theme for the past fifteen years, the key being locked inside the room. Daddy remarked that the locksmith—a fellow named Vinod—never showed up when they called in emergencies like this. But Daddy knew what to do. He quietly explained that if you played with the lock, wriggled the key in a certain manner, and pulled the door in a certain other manner, it would open.
Sure enough a few minutes later the door gently opened. Daddy smiled pleasantly and quietly shuffled back to his room.
Everyone grew quiet and we shared an unspoken admiration for the quiet, loving soul who was our grandfather. We knew in that moment—and we were reminded of it at dinner—something we had known since we were little children: Daddy was an opener of doors.
Papa smiled, his eyes misty. It was the first of a chain of emotional moments strung over the next few months. It would be the first time I’d ever see my father descend into a dark depression.
SOMEONE SOMEWHERE WHO never had kids once came up with the misguided expression that “having a dog is just like having a kid.”
It’s not.
Over the years, I’d learned that my relationships with Nicholas and more recently Cleo could more or less be qualified as “simple.” To me, that’s meant to be more complimentary than condescending. With Cleo specifically, there is an elegance and effortlessness to her sense of companionship, and hence to our relationship, that’s easy to summarize. It’s steady and loyal and relatively unemotional. That’s not to say that I don’t love Cleo, but that my relationship with her lacks the mosaic of emotions that my other relationships—notably with humans—are made of.
My bond with Krishu is indescribable. While it’s hard to put into words what exactly I feel for and with my son, simple certainly isn’t the word. On those first days with him, when he’d sleep between Candice and me, I’d find myself staring at him. Just staring. It started out as new parent vigilance. Wasn’t it my job to ensure he was breathing and all systems were still go? But it evolved over time into a mix of objective fascination (look how he grows from day to day) to a total obsessive subjectivity. He was mine. I’d jokingly ask Candice if she really did love our son more every day like the old cliché predicted. She was steadfast, even in recent weeks when potty training had taken a turn for the worse, Krishu was all of a sudden pulling all-nighters, and his defiance had reached new heights.
Despite the jokes, I was miraculously the same way, to the point that I couldn’t even fathom today how I could like the kid more tomorrow. Lo and behold though, when tomorrow came, the miracle just grew. To that extent, if my father’s relationship with Daddy is to serve as a road map for mine with Krishu, then we were in for something very special. Papa’s reverence for his father was unique. It was a combination of parental love and respect but also an admiration that transcended normal familial bonds.
“What was so special about Daddy?” I asked Papa over dim sum Sunday morning. It had been several years now since he’d died, but Daddy still regularly came up in conversation.
Papa thought about it for a beat. “He was wise. And he understood context.”
It was a straightforward, albeit curious reply. I pressed Papa for more.
“There’s a difference between intelligence and wisdom,” Papa answered as he picked up some vegetables with his chopsticks. “Intelligence comes from having mastery over data and information. Wisdom comes from having mastery over intuition, emotion, time . . . and intelligence itself. It’s about being plugged into the universe and knowing the right way to deal with the right circumstance at the right time. It manifests as a full understanding of the ecosystem in which one exists. Daddy always understood the context of a moment and how to react to it.
“That’s why he was so wise.”
When Daddy passed away, my whole family was devastated. He was the family patriarch, but in a very unassuming and gentle way. Even to those he was not connected to by blood, like my mother and her parents, Nani and Nana, the loss of Daddy was a crippling emotional blow. Not only was he the family doctor in every sense—he had overseen everyone’s health, from every newborn to each of his own generation in the family as they aged—but also the gentleness, grace, patience, and yes, wisdom of his presence had affected everyone he’d ever touched.
When we were small Chota Papa once told us a story about Daddy that pretty much said it all. He recalled a time decades ago when he was about seven years old and Papa was ten and they lived in a rural part of India. As a military doctor, every few years Daddy was posted in different parts of India tending to soldiers and setting up medical units, often from scratch.
“Once a week,” Papa recalled, when I asked him recently to tell me the story again, “on Sundays, Daddy would open up the clinic and allow entry to anyone who needed free medical assistance or advice.
“Over the years, he must have treated thousands of people that way. Some just had simple problems—cuts or wounds infected because of unhygienic care and conditions, while others had complex ailments that I’ve never seen to this day in all of my own medical experience.”
It’s no big leap to suggest that it was during this time, watching Daddy care gallantly for countless villagers, often changing their lives with the simple application of an antibiotic, a splint, or even some advice, that both Papa and Chota Papa determined their medical aspirations. To that end, Daddy’s impact was profound and deep. While Papa would go on to get his acclaim, Chota Papa’s achievements were not too shabby. He’d have his own illustrious career as a physician, culminating in his ongoing role as the dean of continuing education at Harvard Medical School. Yeah—that Harvard.
“And it wasn’t just Daddy,” Papa reminded me. “Ma was right by his side. Since so many people were coming to see Daddy from so far away, naturally there were long lines and people had to wait for hours. In order to make sure they didn’t do so hungrily, Ma cooked huge amounts of food and then we—Chota Papa and me—served it while Ma listened to all of their problems. Together, we were quite the team.”
Years later, Daddy received word that the army was posting him to another region.
“We packed up our things—we didn’t have much, as we were used to living in places just temporarily—and headed for the train station. Chota Papa and I loved riding trains because Daddy would take us up onto the roof of the passenger cars so we could see the countryside as the train passed through it.” I could tell from Papa’s wistful nostalgia that these were among the most precious memories he had of days gone by.
“When we
got to the train station, we were welcomed by the most amazing sight. Two thousand people had come to say good-bye. Most had brought food and sweets as gifts. The longer we waited for the train—Indian trains were notoriously delayed—the more people showed up until the whole platform was packed with well-wishers.
“When we finally got on the train and it pulled away, all of us—Ma, Daddy, Chota Papa, and me—waved out the windows to everyone. I still remember seeing dozens upon dozens of strangers weeping as the train left the station. That’s how much Daddy had affected them.”
Papa nodded with admiration. “I’ll never forget that.”
SOMEHOW OVER THE years I’d naively assumed that Papa could come up with an answer for every one of life’s predicaments. Surely he knew how to manage the loss of a loved one. Hadn’t he written a book about it somewhere along the way?
“I have, actually,” Papa noted. “But knowing the rules doesn’t make you a master of the game.”
Indeed, when Daddy passed away—notably with no warning nor signs of ill health—papa was emotionally overwrought and propelled into a grief and philosophical questioning unlike he’d ever experienced. He admitted that it was the first time in his life he’d experienced insomnia. He’d spend long nights lying awake questioning the meaning of his life, his mortality, and whether he’d ever feel truly passionate about anything again.
He shrugged when I asked him about it. Even as I struggled to keep Krishu from tossing a dumpling that rolled around on his plate, I watched Papa. Very rarely in my life had I detected the sort of body language in him that I did at that moment. His shoulders slumped with indecision and his eyes lacked their usual conviction.
“I think it was something I just had to go through. Grief is a process. There’s no other way to really deal with it.”
Funny, I thought to myself when I later recalled Papa’s response. I’d have expected something more profound, a self-generated (and no doubt Chopra-branded) truism or elegant quote from Rumi or Tagore. And yet the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the process itself that he cited was the true insight he’d stumbled upon. And once again Papa and Cleo had a lot in common, and dare I say, a certain wisdom about them when it came to dealing with the greatest human mystery there is: death.
AFTER CANDICE AND I got married, within a week after she graduated from medical school, we both packed up our respective New York apartments and moved across the country to Los Angeles with Cleo in tow. Having lived in a Beverly Hills apartment by myself for a few years, realizing quickly that it wasn’t the right neighborhood for me, Candice and I sought a different neighborhood to start out our married life. Much to my surprise, actually, Papa had offered some sage advice.
“Make sure there are two sinks in the master bathroom,” he offered soberly. “And, if possible, live near water or mountains,” he added.
After an exhaustive search and considerably overshooting our budget, Candice and I found a rental that fit both of the criteria. With great trepidation we signed a year-long lease for a small one-bedroom apartment on a tiny Santa Monica street less than a block from the beach. In part we justified this expensive apartment selection by insisting that it would make Cleo much happier to live a leisurely beach life. A city dog her whole life, surely she should have sun and sand to soften the blow of being ripped away from her urban surroundings. The theory didn’t follow any logic; still, it made writing the monthly rent check just a little easier.
Another attraction to the apartment was the neighborhood. It was actually on the second floor of a house on a street populated by other Craftsman homes, each one of which exuded a quaint flair and charm. The families ranged from an elderly couple who had lived on the street for almost forty years, to a young single actress I recognized (much to Candice’s horror) from late-night Cinemax movies, to a couple in their late thirties who lived off an inheritance from her father. They spent their days homeschooling their two young sons and, in the process, became pseudo-ambassadors of our quiet street.
Candice and I learned these details from passive involvement with our neighbors, mostly awkward and inconvenient encounters when we were rushing from the house before or after work to walk Cleo. In retrospect, we were the quintessential frenzied New Yorkers living by the beach. Constantly rushing from one place to the next and usually late for something, we had laid down pretty much everything we had in our bank account to live by the beach, but we rarely, if ever, took the time to even put our toes in the sand. To us, our neighbors were akin to coinhabitants at the zoo. We might have been housed beside one another, but that didn’t mean we had much in common aside from (possibly) being part of the same species.
Cleo, on the other hand, quickly assimilated herself to the new digs. Considering that she had spent her entire life up in the concrete jungle of New York City, this was somewhat surprising. Then again, Cleo’s ability to integrate so easily to her surroundings was one of her more fascinating qualities. Whereas I had always understood dogs to be creatures of habit and routine—and Cleo was, in many respects—in this aspect she never really showed us any resistance or difficulty. Candice and I called her an “equal opportunity urinator,” in that wherever we put the fancy Indian silk rugs that my mom had given us, Cleo peed on them. In doing so, she more than just marked her territory, she marked our home. That stale peanutty urine odor mixed with Nature’s Miracle and Indian incense became the smell of familiarity for all of us. Aside from that, as long as Cleo had bowls to drink and eat from and a warm bed to sleep in (i.e., ours), her world would continue to spin on its axis.
In terms of how she interacted with others, neighbors included, Cleo operated in a relatively black-and-white world. Inside the house—her territory—anyone nonfamily was an open target for her terror. Being that she was so small and harmless, the object of her aggressions often didn’t realize it, and quickly tamed Cleo with affection, which was her most overt kryptonite. Outside of the house, or I should say outside, Cleo was almost the exact opposite. She was exceedingly friendly, often pulling her leash toward others so that she could get sniffs and licks on any random pedestrian. This was largely the result of Cleo’s discovery that during top dog-walking times—early mornings and early evenings—a lot of people in our hood carried doggy treats. Cleo knew just how to work these suckers.
First she’d approach her targets, cautiously sniffing around their feet or their dogs, her own tail wagging for all to see that she meant (good) business. If they showed any interest at all in her, she’d quickly turn on the charm and ratchet up her best Gone with the Wind affect, arching her neck upward, as if begging for affection. When she most often got it, she went for the kill, rolling over submissively and presenting her belly for a nice rubdown. By this time, she had her targets nailed. The tipping point was a mere formality: She’d roll back over, sit on her hind legs, and look upward with her giant precataract puppy dog eyes. If indeed the target had any treats, they were as good as gone.
Dogs, on the other hand, were of little interest to Cleo. Considering that most dogs didn’t carry tote bags filled with their own treats, this wasn’t all that surprising, I suppose. Sure, like all dogs, Cleo did the perfunctory routine when confronted with another dog—sniffing and inspecting, sometimes playing a little game of “twisting the leash” if the mood felt right—but by and large, her own species intrigued her hardly at all.
That’s precisely why her relationship with the neighbor’s dog Mocha (let alone basic acknowledgment of him) was so special. Mocha was an aptly named rescue dog that appeared to be some mixture of Labrador and, well, something else. He was at least twice the size of Cleo but apparently just as undisciplined, distinctive, and also harmless. His owner sheepishly confessed to me once that while Mocha had been neutered, it hadn’t done much to settle him down. Sure, he wasn’t horny, but that energy seemed only to have been channeled into an endless frenetic playfulness. If Cleo had a well thought out and deliberate Genghis Khan–esque routine to conquer all of Santa Mon
ica and hoard its treats, Mocha was the exact opposite. He was a surfer dude, content with fun in the sun.
More remarkable, though, was the way in which Mocha interacted with Cleo. Because while his playfulness never left him—even when he chilled out with Cleo you could still see the twinkle in his eyes—with Cleo Mocha fell into line. Somehow, in some moment that I certainly hadn’t witnessed, she had asserted herself as the alpha and Mocha took her lead.
Often when Cleo and I returned from walks, Mocha would be waiting outside of his house, tail wagging furiously as she came into sight. Initially this led us to allow the two of them to play in the same yard, jump around, rubbing snouts, chasing each other in circles, and sniffing each other in their downtime. Over time, as their relationship grew, we and our neighbors would leave the two of them together even when we were at work or out for the day. It was a new role for Cleo, to be the leader of the pack. She seemed to enjoy it. Wherever she walked, Mocha followed. Wherever she settled for a nice afternoon snooze, Mocha kept her in his sight line. She did the same. He was the only dog I’d ever seen Cleo actually allow to share her food and water bowls. These kids were made for each other.
All of this pleased Candice and me considerably. As part of our new married life, living in an apartment we couldn’t really afford, we were both taking our professional lives very seriously. Entrenched already in her medical residency, Candice was rotating between multiple hospitals, which often meant late nights. Likewise, my hours were stretching at work, which translated into the two of us barely seeing each other at home after work before I’d have to hustle Cleo out of the house for her nightly walk. By the time I returned, Candice was usually already fast asleep.
The real casualty in all of this was Cleo. We both wanted to spend more time with her, but the realities of our new lives meant we couldn’t. The fact that she had found a buddy in Mocha was a godsend to us all. Practically, it meant one less worry in our self-obsessed lives, knowing that Cleo seemed to be okay. And so, largely we figured we were off the hook when it came to worrying about her.
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