by Sopan Deb
My father’s flat had its own cozy charm, infused with his personality, but it was missing something. I gave him a gift: a print of my first-ever front-page story in the New York Times, over which he gushed with joy. It was from the day of Trump’s inauguration, which I helped cover during my first month on the job. The print would fit on his wall just fine next to his historically accurate paintings: The article had been rigorously fact-checked.
“Beautiful! Beautiful! Oh my god,” Shyamal said, holding it in his hands. He leaned over and kissed me on the head. “You know, some of the writings I don’t understand. I am not a man of literature. I am a man of engineering. But I read this with pride. So beautiful. My son.”
Shyamal examined his wall for a place to hang the print. A driver was outside waiting to take us back to our hotel.
“This feels like home to you,” I said, looking around. “This whole place. India. Kolkata. It feels like it’s your home. Does it feel like home to you?”
Shyamal sighed.
“Yes and no,” he said. “The lights of my life are not around me. You and Sattik. That does not make this home. That will never make this home.”
His eyes darted to the Times print he clutched, then to our faces. My father, who claimed himself to be a man of no regrets, flashed a hint of sadness in his face. His lips pursed. Shyamal contemplated for a few seconds, before raising his head and fixing his stare on us again.
“But I am comfortable here,” my father said.
Wesley and I left Shyamal’s flat and climbed into the car. As we pulled away, my head swiveled toward his flat, cementing it in my mind. When we had first pulled up to this building, I felt I was nervously chatting with a stranger and was unsure of what to expect. Now I felt the sharp pain of a new normal.
Thirteen
“You’ve brought me everything.”
Imagine, if you will, that you take a highly anticipated trip to a foreign country rich with diverse culture and history. You arrive at one of the five cities on your schedule. It’s filled with endless sights to see and you have only a limited amount of time to see them. And you won’t be back anytime soon, certainly not for several years.
Do you, on your only free day . . .
Wake up and immediately head out to start checking items off your sightseeing itinerary.
Wait, what about the local cuisine? Okay, eat breakfast and then consult the itinerary.
Since you’re spontaneous, you roam the area without any plan in mind. Let the adventures come where they may.
Stay inside all day to binge-watch Season 3 of The Americans.
If you picked options A, B, or C, congratulations. You are a well-adjusted human being with a curiosity for the world around you. Wesley and I went with D.
Since Manvi’s wedding itinerary skipped a day in the middle, we were free to explore Bengaluru, a city located in the southern part of India, which is known as the country’s tech capital. But being in India’s Silicon Valley wasn’t enough to get me out of bed. I was emotionally and physically drained from almost a week with Shyamal, and these few days would serve as a much-needed intermission before seeing him again in Delhi after the wedding.
Even still, I honestly can’t think of a worse way to embrace my Indian heritage than by spending a full day in India watching The Americans. But there we were. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to be plugged in. The only thing I wanted to be plugged in was the laptop, so we could watch more episodes. Shyamal’s car crash, which I had only just learned was the impetus for him leaving the country, hung like smog in my brain.
That night, over dinner—at one of the hotel restaurants, of course—Wesley and I felt refreshed enough to relive the past week.
“It was clear from my dad that he puts zero blame on himself,” I mused. “He’s quite comfortable with how he was as a dad.”
“Better dad than he had,” Wesley said.
“He said, ‘What more could I have done?’ And it’s tough to answer that question in the moment,” I responded. “And the truth is, I don’t know the answer to that question, but it doesn’t feel like he was 100 percent father of the year.”
I was conflicted. I understood a lot more about my father and his motivations. I appreciated the struggles he went through and saw the reasons for his shortcomings. But there was another part of me still deeply frustrated with him.
“I think it’s less about things he could have done,” Wesley said. “It’s more about an interest in your humanity that I don’t think he quite conceptualizes. He would respond and say, ‘I came to your plays, I came to your chorus concerts.’”
“Okay, but that opens up the question of was it even possible for him, given the cultural divide?” I said. I considered that even if my parents had been a good match, that Shyamal and I would still not have been close.
“And the answer is probably no, and so maybe what more he could have done is something that is not necessarily within his capacity,” Wesley offered. “The answer could definitely be that he was the best dad he had the capacity to be, and it was not enough.”
“I just don’t think you go through your entire life being alienated from your children and you did nothing wrong,” I said.
There was some bitterness that hadn’t subsided. Maybe it would never leave. We paid the check and headed back to our room, where iTunes was waiting.
Wesley yelled from across the room: “Want to set up The Americans?”
The first part of Manvi’s wedding celebration had been the prewedding sangeet, basically a night of performances from close friends and family. There were poems, dances (including a choreographed flash mob), singing, toasts, and, of course, gratuitous eating. A sangeet can last for days, although that is increasingly uncommon. Perhaps as karmic punishment for wasting so much time in India watching American (Russian?) television, on the day of the sangeet, I came down with crippling food poisoning as the result of some not-so-thoroughly cooked meat I ate the night before. There was no gratuitous eating for me, though the sight of me doubled over in pain probably just looked like a new twist on the Electric Slide.
I was thrilled to see Manvi and even more grateful to her for providing the nudge I needed to take this trip. Trying to have an extended conversation with the bride was like trying to get a question in at a presidential press conference. Each time she attempted an escape from the crowd to say hello to us, she found herself swarmed seconds later by an inexhaustible stream of family members. She and Jayanth, her soon-to-be husband, did get to meet Wesley, and we all hung out briefly by the bar. We had both come a long way since our days of improv.
On Day 3, the wedding ceremony began early in the morning. Have you ever been to an elaborate Indian wedding in the summer? It’s like Coachella, but with higher temperatures and fewer drugs. The ceremony lasted approximately six hours and began with a procession of wedding guests being led into an open-air venue by a man playing a large drumlike instrument called a thavil and another one blowing a nadaswaram, a classical Indian reed instrument. Once inside, the resplendent colors being worn by the couple were visible even from across the room. They sat in the center with a priest, while the guests sat in bleacher seats on the outskirts of the pavilion.
When I say Coachella, I also mean in terms of attention span. At a concert festival, you might take some time at one stage, linger for a bit, and go to another one. You might not even pay attention to the act onstage. You might come late in the day or leave early. At this ceremony, guests lingered around the edge of a mammoth tent that was erected on the grounds of a picturesque venue about forty-five minutes away from the downtown area. Most were chatting during the ceremony, only paying attention intermittently to its many phases. Even the parents of the bride and groom circled the tent, mingling with guests to make sure they were comfortable.
I met several of Manvi’s friends, whose lives seemed like the opposite of mine: Most of them were brought up in India, went to school in the United States,
and returned to India as quickly as they could or were making eventual plans to do so. Many of our conversations swung back to them wanting to be with the family they had grown up with. It was of paramount importance for them to be home. I didn’t really have much to offer on that front.
After an extravagant wedding reception at a downtown Bengaluru hotel, Wesley and I boarded a flight the next morning to Delhi, where we linked up with Shyamal for the last part of the trip.
Our first day in Delhi was, by far, our busiest, and it was a rainy one no less. Remember when I said my father had planned every facet of our final stretch? He had mapped out six sights for us to see that day, a mixture of architectural wonders and ancient sights that were his personal favorites. There was the stunning Lotus Temple, one of eight or so continental Bahá’í faith temples around the world; it was built in the shape of an actual lotus flower. The Bahá’í faith is particularly fascinating because it accepts all faiths as having validity, which seems to me to be an obvious path to world peace.
Shyamal took us to a local market, where Wesley bought some jewelry and pashminas. In some parts of India, gemstones are much cheaper than they are in America, partially because of the abundance of mines there, so Delhi was an ideal place to buy gifts for relatives at home. Wesley sat in a back room examining rubies with a magnifying glass, asking what I thought. I thought the air-conditioning and my cup of chai were great.
We also went to Purana Qila, a sixteenth-century fort. It has another common name: “Old Fort.” The country responsible for beautiful names like Priyanka and Shivani somehow let a sight rich with history be nicknamed “Old Fort.” It’s like calling the place where the leader of your country lives the White H— Ah. Nevermind.
Many of the structures within the Old Fort were attributed to Emperor Humayun, the second Mughal ruler of India. We also went to the Red Fort, another Mughal structure, this one built by Shah Jahan, the fifth Mughal ruler. Its walls are made of red sandstone, hence its name. My father had done a lot of studying of the Mughal empire, the Muslim dynasty that led India for two centuries, and he excitedly imparted every bit of knowledge as often as he could. And when he wasn’t teaching, Shyamal would randomly blurt out “THE MUGHALS!” like they were invading and he was the only one who saw them. Or we’d turn and look at him and we’d hear him mutter, “Old Fort!” and nothing else.
And once again, my father did that thing where he’d take pictures of us with his point-and-shoot camera without knowing how to use the zoom. So Wesley and I stood there, grinning for minutes, as he stepped forward and backward and then forward again until he got the composition he wanted. And then Wesley would hand him our smartphone to take another picture.
“BEAUTIFUL. I admire this camera so much,” Shyamal would say.
We offered to send him our higher resolution pictures. But he wanted his own, so we indulged him and stood like mannequins whenever he asked. I only reached my breaking point once. At the last fort of the day, we stood for a few minutes, sticky and fatigued, while he snapped pictures. Then he spotted a bush nearby. Could we go stand behind the bush? No, Dad. Absolutely not.
I’ll say this about Shyamal: His energy was impressive. At the end of the day, Wesley and I were nearly dead and drenched, a combination of sweat and rain. But Shyamal, armed with the spirit of THE MUGHALS, wanted to keep taking us to sights.
“I know you are tired. I’m tired also. But we will never get this day back,” Shyamal said to Wesley and me.
The next day, we took a four-hour drive to Agra to see the crown jewel of the trip: the Taj Mahal. Shyamal told me that he had seen the Taj Mahal four times previously, the first time in 1965, when he came to Delhi for a job interview and took the train to Agra.
We caught our first glimpse of the world’s most famous mausoleum from a highway in Agra. From there, the edges of its marble pillars and the top of its dome came to life like a storybook image.
“Holy shit. It’s right there,” I said.
I kept repeating myself.
“Holy shit. It’s right there. Holy shit. It’s right there. IT’S RIGHT THERE.”
Anyone who has studied the Taj Mahal knows that it was built by Shah Jahan, who ruled India from roughly 1628 to 1658, as a tribute to his wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died in 1631 while giving birth to the couple’s fourteenth child. A grief-stricken Jahan wanted to make a romantic gesture, so he commissioned this grand tomb. It remains, to this day, the biggest romantic gesture in history.
What is less known is the Agra Fort, two kilometers farther up the Yamuna River, which Jahan renovated. It is where he was imprisoned at the end of his life by his son, Aurangzeb.
In 1657, Jahan became ill, setting off a bloody battle for a successor among four of his sons. Aurangzeb, the third oldest, emerged victorious. He executed two of his brothers, and the other fled the country. Aurangzeb placed his father under house arrest at the Agra Fort, where he remained until his death in 1666. The only view he had of the outside world for the last years of his life was that of his beloved monument to Mumtaz: the nearby Taj, where his remains would also be placed. Good thing he didn’t just go with flowers.
This was what Shyamal most wanted us to see: Jahan’s view from his prison cell. From this vantage point, one can see how much the Taj towers over Agra. In the distance are the outlines of residential areas and other buildings. But its immediate surroundings are all open fields. As I peered through a grated opening to see this more distant perspective, I wondered what Jahan must have thought seeing only this wonder in his waning days.
It wasn’t until early the next morning that we got to tour the grounds of the actual Taj Mahal. Due to increasing pollution, cars aren’t allowed near the complex, because petrol fumes had begun yellowing some of the marble. The closest we were able to get was about a mile from the Taj before walking the rest of the way. Once you arrive at the complex, you enter through a tunnel. The Taj is on the other side: a light at the end of the tunnel, somewhat appropriate for a tomb.
When we emerged, I let out a quiet gasp. Truly, this was the most awe-inspiring sight I had ever seen. The structure is an imposing and impeccably detailed work of art, looming over a reflecting pool with the tunnel on the other side. It was surprisingly peaceful. The day had just begun, so the area wasn’t crawling with people yet, and the summer temperature wasn’t oppressive.
Jahan was known for his love of design and architecture. The Taj was even more of a triumph if you consider how long it has been standing and the technologies involved in building it. In addition to the teardrop shape of the main building, which is accentuated by several columns of various sizes, Arabic inscriptions line the walls. The actual caskets of Mumtaz and Jahan are inside the structure. Even though the tomb was built for Mumtaz, Jahan’s casket is in the center of the room and is bigger than his wife’s.
Wesley and I toured the grounds by ourselves while Shyamal took pictures from afar. On the way back, merchants selling souvenirs accosted us left and right, recognizing us as tourists and easy marks. They competed with each other, each openly offering lower prices than their neighbor, although still higher than what they would normally charge, correctly assuming that we wouldn’t know the difference.
Still marveling at the Taj, Wesley and I were open to buying some trinkets. Here we saw a side of Shyamal we hadn’t seen yet: the haggler. The shops, essentially a line of stalls, were all located one next to the other. Each sold Taj-related merchandise: mini marble Taj Mahals. Taj Mahal plates. Taj Mahal postcards. Taj Mahal keychains. Taj Mahal candles.
My father insisted we leave any transactions to him, because he knew how this process worked. He deftly negotiated prices, even for tiny keepsakes, with each shop owner. Shyamal raised his voice and gesticulated wildly, throwing his arms wide, as he laid out the reasons each merchant was overcharging. And then he’d abruptly leave the stall midconversation and go to the next one to see if he could get a better deal. Sometimes the shop worker would chase after him and offer a lowe
r price. Others would see if he was bluffing. But after fifteen minutes or so, it was clear Shyamal had a talent for this. He would’ve made the haggler in Monty Python’s Life of Brian proud.
Shyamal wanted to send gifts back for Wesley’s family. We told him that he could but to please keep it small, since we had so much to carry back with us to the United States. My father promised he wouldn’t go overboard. We stood near the stalls, waiting for him to return.
“Overboard” is a relative term, apparently, because Shyamal came back with unwieldly bags, which held an ornate plate of considerable size (closer to a small platter) for Wesley’s mother and a lamp for one of Wesley’s brothers. Dad, what did I just say? Shyamal insisted we’d be able to get all of this home with no problem. He just wanted to impress Wesley’s family and thank them for bringing her into his life. I tried to protest, but there was no winning this battle. We were taking these gifts home, even if we had to throw some of our own clothes out to make it happen. Fine.
Agra is not a place you linger long after seeing the Taj, but my dad squeezed in one more stop at Fatehpur Sikri, about forty-five minutes away. We walked around the bright green pools at the Panch Mahal, quickly skipped barefoot across the hot marble at the Jama Mosque, then ditched Agra for the next stop on the Golden Triangle: Jaipur.
Jaipur would be our last stop before one quick night in Delhi to catch our flight home. I had blinked and we were already near the end of our trip.
The four-hour drive was a sleepy one. Shyamal napped in the front seat while Wesley and I watched more of The Americans in the back. We were hurtling down a mostly empty highway, a smattering of shops decorating the shoulder in some places and large herds of goats in others. I hate long drives. Like, really hate them. But I don’t really like walking either, so traveling by car is the better option. It’s a conundrum of lazy.
Out of nowhere, the tires screeched as our driver slammed on the brakes and swerved to the left.