Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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The year I turned 20, I was determined to go to India. It was not an unfamiliar place; I had spent some time in Chennai at my grandparents’ house as a child. Those hot summers stretched on languidly, with visits to relatives and more food than I could stomach. This India was comfortable and simple, reminiscent of a time that had long passed. Although I loved it, it was my parents’ India, not mine.
Growing up, my Indian and Canadian identities felt disparate and segmented; It was a conflict I hoped to address in adulthood. One year, I found funding for a summer fellowship, in a new city – Mumbai, one I had never been to. My family was afraid. “How will you survive, without speaking fluent Hindi? At least, find someone there that we know,” they begged me.
My father reached out to his second cousin. Arvind Uncle had married out of the Tamil community; his wife was from Gujarat. In his generation, that was rare. After years of losing touch, Dad asked if I could crash at his place. He did not hesitate: “Of course, she is welcome.”
On a summer evening, in the middle of monsoon season, I arrived at his small apartment building. The apartment was given to him by his company, to be returned when he retired. Enjoy it while it lasts, he told me. It was a beautiful unit, old and rustic – built far too close to the sea, likely breaking multiple zoning laws. It smelled of old books and it was filled with them, shelves plastered on to the walls of the hallways and in the living room. We spent our evenings on his balcony, discussing what I had learned at work, our favourite writers and Indian politics. Our discussions were lively – both of us had opinions and were not afraid to voice them. I liked that about him, both his conviction and his curiosity. I slept on the living room couch, with the balcony doors open, the breeze tasted like ocean salt.
This was not the India of my childhood, or the one preserved carefully in my parents’ stories. Through Mumbai, or as my uncle called it, Bombay, I saw an India of opposites – of modernity and tradition, warmth and cruelty, diversity and intolerance, noise and quiet. And within these contradictions, I felt free to just be. My uncle had a calm, laissez faire approach. He never really asked about my comings and goings or set a curfew time. He let me navigate the busy streets using broken Hindi, to take an auto rickshaw to work and explore. I found myself lost in street corners, soaked in the monsoon rains, eating idlies with new friends in Chembur, dancing to Top 40 and Bollywood remixes in South Bombay. I became accustomed to the clamour of the fish market next to the company I worked at, enamoured by the glittering skyline views as I went for evening runs on the beach.
When the summer ended and we said our goodbyes, I promised to return. I never did. The last seven years passed quickly, I started and finished medical school and began residency. Time felt scarce, a trip to India, too large of an undertaking. My uncle retired after a long career, the beautiful house in front of the Arabian Sea now returned to his former company. But we did stay in touch over the years, him making more of an effort than I did. Every month or so, I’d receive an article from him – about health care, or politics, occasionally about literature. It was touching, he read something and thought of me.
It was a heart attack that killed him. My father called me, on a Thursday evening in the middle of May. I could tell in his voice already that it would be sad news. I was tempted to ask more. “Just leave it be,” my dad said. “He passed away at home.” My Uncle’s e-mail sent just one week prior, sat unopened in my inbox.
A part of me is hesitant to write about him. He was an inquisitive, sharp reader, who did not hesitate to give me constructive feedback on my writing. Would he feel like I’ve done him justice? Writing about someone feels like dissecting them in a way. Holding them in close scrutiny, attempting to capture a clear image of their essence. But Arvind Uncle will always be seen through my eyes with the wonder of experiencing Mumbai for the first time – his silhouette blurred into the city skyline, his voice intermingled with the crashing waves of the sea. Cities are ultimately an expression of the people within them. And because of him, I felt enveloped in Mumbai’s embrace.
From his generosity, I gained the courage to explore the country of my origins, for myself. And so to Arvind Uncle, thank you.
Divya R. Santhanam lives in Toronto.