Abundance and Generosity

She safeguards a plastic card identity within zippers and compartments. Birkenstock sandals, the multi- pocketed traveler’s capris convey a casual, crumpled look. The drip-dry blouse, tousled hair, and distressed leather bag slung over shoulder geotag her better than any AI algorithm. An ever-so-slight arrogance that all America is the United States is plain to see but hard to pin.

You really can tell a lot by the way someone walks.

Accompanying her is a slip of a lad in neatly pressed clothes. He stays in in a college dorm they call the hostel. The creases on his half-sleeved shirt and along his trousers are perfect lines. It’s as though he carries a burden of infinite school work. They navigate the dusty, crowded Indian streets, as she hopes to lighten his spirit with the early evening outing.

“We’ll Bourdain today.”

Bonding over a favorite TV persona and trying out different restaurants, the two set out with no reservations.

The nephew has managed to squeeze in a couple of days of vacation. Getting back to the grind is always on his mind. The aunt hopes to revive the mischievous smile his face has long forgotten.

With each step, he unloads difficulties of school. Bill Gates is always a staple example of being a stellar dropout.

He doesn’t know it, but, a game plan between his mother and aunt is already afoot. This ploy, the sisters assure their oh so righteous selves , is only to make sure he successfully completes the hard knocks of college life. She has traveled across the continents to see her aging parents, and the nephew is visiting his grandparents for the weekend.

Running errands for parents brings back memories of bygone days. The youngest of many, her visit rekindles youth in parents.

Despite the tack sharp mental acuity, the father's physical activities now have limits. He’s raring to change out the cordless phone batteries, and she willingly does his bidding.

Before she leaves, she anticipates the set of meticulous instructions.

“Make sure you go to the correct store and ask for Asif.”

Then comes the emphasis on the relationship.

“Do not forget to tell him you’re my daughter.”

She represses a smile. Despite multiple roles, this she will forever remain.

The mother’s voice floats from another room, “For fruit, buy only from hardworking and honest Kamala.”

Of course, the send-off must include a warning. “Remember, too much swimming in happiness can lead to much flailing in Dukh Sagar.” (Ocean of Sorrow)

The restaurant is called Sukh Sagar, The Ocean of Happiness. That name would have better suited a pescatarian restaurant instead of this vegetarian snack joint she knew from her teenage years.

She chuckles at her mother’s rhyming antonym, remembering the days of partaking in king-size portions leading to pitstops on ceramic thrones. Not wanting to hear any more alerts and advisories, she rushes out with a parting shot, “We live to eat, mother!"

Living to eat, that becomes the theme for the day. The aunt recounts college tales to the nephew on their walk. She shares memories of savoring the sweet-sour street style snacks, indulging in thick milk shakes, creamy ice creams, and other sinful desserts at the haunt. It was new, shiny, and affordable then.

“As a teen I tutored elementary school children. The busy parents paid tutors like me educate their kids. I was only a couple of years older than my students.”

“How much did you earn?”

“Enough to indulge in my favorite activities; book-buying, cinema and restaurant-hopping with friends. It took a month to get paid, but money never stayed in the palm of my hand for long.”

The nephew wants to know more about her college days.

“My existence back then was literally hand-to-mouth.”

The aunt relishes the contrast of her current prosperity with student day penury.

Wistful, she wants to know if those old taste buds still have a memory.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

She breaks into laughter at the nephew’s cheeky reply.

The duo quickly finish up errands, and the gustatory adventure begins. Although he is built slightly, the young lad takes after the aunt in appetite. The nostalgic path is fraught with competition from new restaurants everywhere. Naturally, they take the scenic route to smell the menus along the way.

Service in the first place is quick. Their order of spring dosa with grated fresh carrot, cabbage, green coriander, onion, and coconut gratings arrives promptly. Seconds later, a sweet tooth sends out reminders needing propitiation.

“You know, the bakery a street away serves Death by Chocolate. It’s created with fine Madagascar triple chocolate and topped with a winning whisper of whipped cream.”

Impressed with his culinary knowledge and alliterative description, they decide to tarry no longer.

The bakery holds confections on shiny trays behind clean glass walls.

The order takes a while to come, but the delectable art is deconstructed to molecules in seconds.

When the nephew begins to recognize and marvel a shared genetic capacity, a pact to journey further in this gustatory adventure is sealed with a mere nod of the head and glint in the eye.

“This was just a nibble for us, an appetizer,” boasts the young man.

The aunt heartily agrees, “I think the time has come to mix nostalgia with taste, what say?”

The long-forgotten grin returns on the young man’s face, and he’s ready to take a dip in The Ocean of Happiness.

On the way he confides to her about the pressures of completing his chosen college degree. “It’s a competitive, cut-throat world out there. Sometimes, I feel overwhelmed, inadequate, and ready to quit.”

"Things indeed have changed in the academic arena," she reflects. Back in the day, school seemed a lot easier and fun. She's not going to let him know that. She glibly reassures, “We all went through that, and when it's over, you may even miss it.”

At the foot of the restaurant, she briefly goes back in time. It must have been the early Eighties. She closes her eyes briefly to recall the restaurant interiors. The walls then had framed posters of ethereally beautiful faces from different decades; the flapper girls of the Roaring Twenties, the free-spirited hippie girls of the sixties, and women with big, swirling seventies hair and saucer-like eyes. The art groupings of preternatural beauties, captured with graceful brush strokes, bore a signature, Sara Moon. That name seemed mysterious as the picture of women. One wore a netted veil partly covering face, revealing and obscuring her eyes at the same time, while another with her fur coat had an inscrutable expression. Even the seemingly free spirit with cascading hair had an intrigue about her. These romantic, feminine images sprang out of her memory after decades.

Growing up, she often wondered about the artist and the oeuvre. However, she had to wait several years for the Information God, aka the popular search engine to demystify these intriguing creatures.

“Sara Moon,” she begins, “is the creator of the ultimate feminine images.”

It’s obvious they’re branded in her mind.

“Surprisingly, Sara Moon is the pseudonym of a Persian male artist named Bijan. He attained fame in Germany during the Seventies, that golden period when individuals still owned imagination.”

The nephew feigns engagement, for he has zero interest in this Sara Moon matter.

They walk up the steep stairs of the restaurant. Despite the passing of over three decades, the décor’s still the same. Extremely relieved at this status quo, the aunt leans back on the red faux leather seat. Rexine, that was the name for that material, she remembers. “How many bottoms and backs has this seat endured in all this time?” she silently asks herself.

A huge sense of comfort sweeps over her to see the fraying wallpaper with images from the days of her invincible teens. She cranes her neck to see the reflection in the once-shiny frost-frame mirrors on the pillared walls. It slightly surprises her to see the older and slightly endowed person in the reflection. "What was I expecting to see?" At her smile, the mirror reflects laugh lines and furrows. She chuckles that the mirrors have more age spots and fissures in comparison.

Sighing deeply, she reflects upon the comfort of having known a past where fashion never seemed a master. “Slaves of technology, that’s what we’ve become,” she muses aloud.

The old-soul nephew nods and the aunt realizes she has an audience of one. “The present is in jeopardy of become passé the very moment it’s born.”

Relishing and savoring her original quote, she continues, “The déjà vu of an older thing now seems rare and precious, and all novelty has disappeared in change.”

She scans the peeling wallpaper, and with a smug look of self-satisfaction, ensconces deeper into the frayed, red sofa seat.

The familiar manager with his leonine hair sits behind the table. He still is lean-framed despite all the restaurant delicacies and aromas through the years. His slightly stooped back and grey hair betray the passage of time. Although his greeting is without ado, there’s a distinct gleam of recognition in the eye.

She suddenly wonders with a smidgen of vanity. “I wonder if he’s also assessing the ravages of time on me.”

A young waiter arrives with a book-like, leather bound menu. The customers here know their favorites. He betrays no surprise they too waive the right to use it.

As they wait for the food to arrive, she looks down at the street through the glass windows. A thick coat of dust layers the leaves of lush, canopied trees on either side. The once tiny temple sitting at the intersection of several streets has quadrupled in size since. The arterial streets coughing up noxious fumes of traffic, now seem much narrower.

The nephew brings up pressures of school and life. She acknowledges his thoughts and fields them with well-meaning clichés. Life is hard sometimes, but one must face the challenges. "Oh, the burden I must bear simply is not fair!" He suddenly bangs the table with clenched fist. “Why it is never enough in a world always wanting more?”

She composes her face to craft an understanding look. Before this becomes a rhetorical dead-end, she deftly changes the mood with the age-old parental weapon, deflection. She turns attention to the number of new cars getting anointed with vermilion, turmeric, and sandal paste at the lucky temple below.

“Eight!”

“Huh?” goes the nephew.

From their air-conditioned roost, they focus the gaze down to narrow streets choking with new vehicles.

“In this little temple, within this brief time, I’ve seen eight new cars squeezing in to get blessed.”

The nephew responds, “That’s a ton of vehicles put out each year.”

The aunt gaze rests upon the familiar temple’s hand-sculpted granite architecture and gleaming dome to respond, “Consider the number of places of worship, and we’re only looking at a small subset.”.

The nephew expands the thought on the expanding middle class, increased affordability and cheaper cars in his already crowded world. After some expert number crunching, they both proclaim it’s a depressing pollution trend. Then, the waiter lays the sweet-sour savory in front of them. And just like that, in that temperature-controlled bubble, they blissfully forget the effects of Freon, CFCs, and global warming.

Even before they finish up the last bite, they debate the next move.

“Should we finish off with a mango milkshake?"

The satiated aunt passes, but she decides to indulge the young man. For quicker service, they get to the fast-food center on the lower floor to place this order.

At the express service, rubbing shoulders with a huge crowd of avid eaters suddenly feels claustrophobic. The duo decide to step out in the open, while they wait for the order to process.

While outside, she points to the fact that eateries outnumber trash cans. When he goes inside to check on his order, the aunt’s critical gaze goes to the discarded paper cups carelessly tossed on the sidewalk from the neighboring coffee place.

Impressed with the quick service, he walks out in anticipation, carrying a heavy, tall glass mug filled to the brim with the sweet, saffron-hued libation.

What happens next is inexplicable to say the least.

Out of the blue, the huge milkshake glass disappears from the nephew’s grasp in one mysterious swoop.

How could this happen right under their noses?

As they piece together the mystery, a whole new scenario begins to unravel right next to their feet. Looking at the real-time event, the light of understanding dawns upon them.

It only took one nimble leap! A little street urchin swept the drink without the carrier’s realization. The sleight of hand was extraordinary. Not a single drop spilled from the deft transfer.

Open-mouthed, they watch together, as an impromptu circle quickly forms on the ground where they stand. A tiny entourage of very young urchins sit cross-legged on the sidewalk floor, eagerly waiting. Hands extended, the little children are ready with the once-discarded now empty paper cups found on the street. Several pairs of eyes, hollowed-out with hunger follow the little boy with the huge drink, as he dispenses them equitably to the last drop. His hands shake visibly betraying a ravenous hunger.

The slightly irritated aunt now feels a responsibility suddenly thrust upon her. Her demeanor grows a bit taller, and words carefully chosen begin to form in her mind. She’s going to teach the urchin right from wrong. She archly taps him on the shoulder.

The boy ignores the gentle tap, for he is busy dispensing the liquid ambrosia too big for little hands. This does not deter her. She is the parent, the educator. She comes from a place of experience and authority. Squatting down on the dusty pavement atop a flattened brown paper box, she hopes to maintain a ladylike composure on the dusty pavement.

He's fortunate she will teach him today about appropriate behavior, hard work, and personal responsibility.

“Right from wrong,” she mutters, as she readies herself and clears throat to begin.

It is at this moment he looks up. Nothing has prepared her for what's to follow.

When their eyes make contact, an acutely sharp feeling hits her in the solar plexus.

At first, she does recognize, for she has understood it only as a mild physiological condition. Yet, his eyes portray it as an emotion. That starkness terrifies her, for she’s looking at deprivation, something she has never known. The name of this condition pops to her mind in only six letters. Can hunger be an emotion? That expression in his eyes wrenches her gut.

The unfolding scenario exposes a gaping hole in her spirit despite a self-indulged, fully satiated stomach.

Mutely, she watches him share the thick, sweet drink along with the group of children in ragged clothes, unkempt hair and hungry bellies.

The children hold their drink until he’s ready, so they can savor it together. Slowly, they get to each drop with their lips, tongues and fingers. They cherish each drop and lick the used paper cup inside out.

A frog-like lump quickly forms to choke off all well-meaning advice. Suddenly, the inadequacy and hopelessness of superfluous words diminish her.

Anguished, her mind wrests with million questions. Who is this child, and who are the others around him? Are they his siblings? Who cares for them?

The quality of giving is a mystery. Who taught this unlettered, hungry child such fairness, generosity and unselfishness?

Her eyes travel up to the nephew. He stares back shell-shocked. It’s as if he’s reading her mind to find it mirrors with his. Suddenly humbled, they continue to battle with questions in their own minds. Who abandoned these kids, and where do they go? Most certainly it can't be to a caring home or even an exacting school!

These questions are mechanical, but they assuage without solution.

How irrelevant are her lessons!

Who decides what’s right and what’s wrong?

Faced with rapacious hunger in the direst circumstances, the child dutifully shared with hungry mouths equitably. Seconds earlier, she wanted to educate him about fairness. She cringes inwardly.

The constant abyss of painful hunger is part of this child's life. Yet, his soul's enriched with a generosity and benevolence she has not witnessed in the "wealthiest" individual. And she wanted to teach this child a well-meaning lesson!

As she reflects, the dynamic scene on the street sidewalk dissolves in the organic fashion it once had formed. Before the duo compose themselves, the children disappear noiselessly into the shadows.

Despite infinite words, they maintain a bond of silence just to replace the hollowness of voiced words.

The aunt and nephew begin the silent walk home.