Mehtab Mowgli

Indian Summer

 

We’d fly Pan Am

24 hours later, we traversed the International Dateline

Landed in the Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi

My Mom and my siblings exhausted after the flight

 Walked in a serpentine line to get our passport and visa stamped 

My sister and I were watching our unruly 4-year-old brother and 1-year-old baby sister 

When it was our turn to get our visas stamped, the government official stopped us

They called in the police

The Sikh customs officer came over to us and whispered, “You should have stood in my line. I would have let you go”

We did not know what was going on

 

They ransacked all our suitcases

 Diapers, clothing, maxi pads, underwear all thrown out for everyone to see

My Mom dropped all her gold coins in my sister’s baby milk bottle

They held my Mom hostage for the night while she sent us kids home with her brother, my Mamma ji.

I sobbed all night for my mother’s safety. I knew she could have been raped

 

But my Mom, a fierce Sardarni, threatened them 

“Don’t you dare touch me, I’m an American Citizen”

They released her the next day without a scratch

 She whispered to my Mamma ji

“The Indian government thinks we are terrorists bringing arms to help the Khalistan effort. They told us not to leave New Delhi.”

I heard everything

We did not abide

We traveled to Jaipur, the legendary Pink City. Grand Palaces owned by the Rajas.  The Colonial British pillaged them before they departed in 1948.  

Conniving Colonial Brits who raped and sickled India into many countries

Creating hatred and division where there was once Unity.

 

We took a train to Agra. The Taj Mahal stood before me in all its pristine glory and grandeur

A mausoleum of white marble built by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his favorite wife

If the Brits could have stolen the Taj Mahal, they would have put it on a ship and made it into a museum in London

 

In the hills of Mussoorie, my cousins and I rode horses at the foot of the Himalayan Mountains.  The cool rain drizzled on our face as we ate corn burnt on fire pits, garnished with lime juice and salt.

In The Golden Temple in Amritsar, I renewed myself as I bathed in the cold holy water in the middle of the night

The Monsoons, torrents of rain. Within a half-hour evaporated into the billowy clouds leaving humidity lingering behind

My hard-headed cousin pushed me into a ditch with cow shit. I climbed out and pushed her back and told my mother

I quenched my thirst with fresh mixed juice every day even though it gave me the runs

We sat in a took took to go to the bazaars. The air was an assault to the senses. Spices. Sweets. Cow Shit

Chandi Chowk, Karol Bhag. Bustling with an electrical energy

 I bought saris, kurta pajamas and glass shimmering bracelets and a toe ring

I rode Rickshaws and talked to Rickshaw Walas about politics

They had their favorite politicians.  The world’s largest democracy with 50% voter turnout

The hungry mosquitos savored my sweet blood as I savored India’s panoply of street food

Warm Aloo Tikka, Cool spicy minty Pani Puri, tangy Papri Chaat, and fried, syrupy jalebi

I could never forget the sweetness of Roshan’s milky kulfi falooda

Ultimately, Dengue Fever

Temperature 104

Body reverberating with pain, like a hammer, was pounding on every bone

Delirium

I thought there was a bug devouring my molar

It was remnants of a silver filling

Couldn’t walk in a straight line

I would have failed a sobriety test

I boarded Pan Am on a return trip to Los Angeles

Vomiting and aching all the way home

It took a month to recover

Would I return to India again?

In a heartbeat.