my village is my village

The wind kissed the back of my neck as I watched the priest pour ghee into the crackling fire in the pyre. The clouds hinted at yet another ridiculous monsoon later that evening, but for now everything was perfect. The air was perfumed by sandalwood-flavored incense sticks, and the crisp scent of fresh flowers—purchased just a few hours ago from Rouses' Fresh Market. 

Using an intricately decorated steel ladle, the priest spooned ghee into the fire, rhythmically almost, as he chanted Sanskrit hymns about Lord Ganesha. The cadence of his voice was hypnotizing, so I had no choice but to let go of all the irksome thoughts that were nestled in the back of my mind. I alternated my stares from the priests' faces, to the fire and to the meticulously arranged fruits, flowers, and pulses—offerings to Lord Ganesha himself.  I took it all in.  

I felt okay. I felt content with myself, my body, and the moment. Slowly more cars trickled in delivering moms in elaborate saris with kids in equally elaborate kurtis. Their husbands followed, sneaking in a quick nod at the priest, and then at my dad before sitting down with everyone else. We all were seated, cross-legged in front of this pyre, my family at the very front, since we were the ones hosting this puja. It was a celebratory puja, but also one to ward off evil spirits that were still lurking in my dad's zodiac. 

People didn't care for why we were doing the puja though, a puja is a puja, and more importantly an excuse to gather. The Indian community in Metairie is small, but very close-knit. So many uncles and aunties who are practically like my parents. They've watched me grow up (metaphorically, not physically of course...but that's another grievance for another blog post), and go from wanting to be an actress to a fashionista to a lawyer to a scientist. They've heard me sing and chant and sing and laugh and make a general fool of myself at parties. They've let me play with their kids, rush to the hospital to watch their kids being born, or watch their kids go through trying, incredibly painful medical procedures. They let me hold their kids' hands, and watch with bated breath as these kids grow up to be the incredible humans that they are today. 

There is this one boy in particular who I'm thinking about. I used to tell my mom that if I were ever to have children later in life, that I'd want to have a son exactly like this kid.  I've known this little dude for as long as he can remember, and maybe around a year ago, we all learned about this unfortunate surgery that he had to undergo. The doctors were like freaking us out, his parents were crying, everyone was in a terrible place, scared for the boy, scared for his parents, just too scared to actually know why we were scared. I went to the hospital, held his hand, kissed his head, and wished really really hard that he'd get another chance at a beautiful pain-free life. I'd go home, watch videos of him that I had on my phone: him playing with his Legos, giggling, trying to lock people out of his room---for once I was thrilled that I had taken so many videos. There wasn't space on my phone for much else besides those videos, but I wanted to take so many more new videos. Of him playing, and giggling, and locking me out of his room to eventually change his mind, open the door and give me like the biggest hug ever. 

And then you know what? Everything went just fine. His surgery was life-saving, not life-changing, and he went back to being that goofy, sweet little boy I loved. And now? He wants to be an orthopedic surgeon, because he is fascinated with the machine that is the human body. He calls the veins "blue wires" and the arteries "red wires," and he told me last night that "yes shreyaakka, there are 206 bones in the human body." 

I  often wonder why my dad hosts these pujas and parties and get-togethers. Sometimes I feel like it's lame to hang out with his extended group of family friends and their kids, and there are only so many times that you can repeat the same bland blurb about where you think your pre-mature science career is headed. There are only so many times that you can assure the Indian uncles and aunties that no, you are not dating anyone, and no you probably won't get married anytime soon. And the only escape from the incessant questioning and the concerted effort to appear like a respectable Indian girl is to  go run around with the kids. I love the kids, I promise, but pretty soon I go from naive party guest to thoroughly unprepared babysitter, and I have to mosey over back to the adults again. I sound selfish and ungrateful, I know. I should be thankful for all these people who care about me. 

When you are born into an Indian family, into a traditional South Indian Hindu family, you are actually born into a village. Even if you are born in the most inconspicuous hillbilly redneck town in the middle of nowhere, trust me when I say that you and your family will always be surrounded by people who know everything about your lives, for better or for worse. You are never born into just a nuclear family—you will always have five moms and seven dads and at least sixteen little kids looking up to you, and wanting to play with your IPhone and go through all of your text messages to your secret lover. 

You are never alone, and I think that's the point of all of these elaborate religious occasions. To be honest I've always been a little skeptical about stuff like this. Not about the existence of God per say, but about religious gatherings and the importance of rituals. Like what would happen if we misread and accidentally skipped a whole paragraph of chants in the prayer book? Like are we doomed forever?? I have always believed that spirituality comes from someplace deep within, and that these pujas and all are merely societal displays of wealth and good fortune. But after last night, I question these deep set beliefs I have. According to my mom, even the poorest man can do a basic puja, and offer God just a flower, a fruit, even just a leaf. The physical act of offering something to God first, and then to the people who surround you in both good and really bad times, is in itself a spiritual experience. Maybe it's not all pretentious and foreign. Maybe it's just the most practical way to celebrate one another. To celebrate the ability to celebrate one another. 

 I wish the idea of religion wasn't such a contentious one sometimes. It sounds silly when people tell me that I should be "proud" or "thankful" that I am a Brahmin, one of the most respected castes in the now obsolete Indian caste system. Did you know there are particular flavors of Brahmin too?? My family is a very yummy flavor, I'll have you know. It's just so silly. I have as much control over the family I was born into as I do over Taylor Swift's love life. (I miss you Tayvin, I wish you both the best of luck, ok?)  

I am flabbergasted sometimes, elated other times, and sometimes I'm just okay-- especially when the wind kisses my back and I have not a care in the world as I watch the priest diligently spoon ghee into the fire. I'll be honest, I don't know what he is saying, but it is okay. If anything, it makes for a great story.