Screw worms, the early bird gets a cup of chai.

You could say I’m not a morning person.  The day my summer vacation finally started, I slept through the night until 4pm the next day. That wasn’t the first time I’ve done that. Apparently, my body’s clock and the clock of the working, waking world are not always in sync.

But once, when I was around 8 years old, I happened to roll out of bed before my mom and brother, right after my dad went to work. I essentially had the house to myself, but it was weird. Weak, morning light and chilly, still air are sensations that have always made me feel a little out of place, kind of like the world is not yet ready for little children like me (in my head, I’m still 8 I guess). It was an adult time of day, so I decided to do something the adults I knew did. I made my first cup of chai.

I used to watch my dad make it every night. I don’t know why, but I methodically committed every detail of the process to memory. Children sense things that are never explicitly said and I think I knew how integral chai was to sustaining my community. It’s how you woke up in the morning and how you unwound at the end of the day. It’s how you got visitors to stay an extra half hour and it’s how you filled the awkward silences when you ran out of things to say. It was language you consumed, so if you could make chai you could communicate in a way that literally warmed people up inside. I felt the calling to be one of those people, so that morning was the moment that pajama-clad, Dora-the-Explorer-hair-repping, eyes-level-with-the-stove Banicia inducted herself into the privileged ranks of the chai-makers. The torch I endeavored to carry was this knowledge: Without us, family functions would cease to exist. While the responsibility is great, the honor is greater.

14 years later and I still make chai regularly. It’s become a sort of meditative experience, an exercise of intuition, because I do it without thinking. But I don’t really let my mind wander either. I just watch the cardamom float in the water, stir the sugar until it dissolves, pour milk until it feels right and then watch it all foam and boil up precariously close to the edge of the pot before I turn the gas flame down and let the concoction calm into stillness again. I don’t know how many times I repeat that process, but at some point the color speaks up and the chai demands to be poured through a half-melted, plastic chalni. Half a cup for Mom and Nani, 3/4 of a cup for Bob. Leftovers for Shari if he’s in the mood. Sometimes cookies, sometimes not. Then I clean up the drops I almost always spill and my family takes their first sips. The final part of the ritual is their verdict. Always gentle but always honest, I’ll know how they like it. Whether I’m 8 or 22, there is nothing quite like hearing a sigh of satisfaction and “chai bahut swaad hai, beta.”

Maybe early mornings aren't so bad. 

On Death and Defecation

I went to San Francisco a couple of months ago, looking forward to some time alone in a big city. I didn’t do much, but I found a Blue Bottle Coffee shop by the Port of San Francisco, so I knew it was going to be a good day. The weather was beautiful, with just enough clouds to be interesting and the sun shining its approval on the new Bay Bridge. I sat outside with my compostable cup of coffee branding me as a responsible, Bay-Area consumer and watched a crow poop after being chased by little kids. And I thought about death. I don’t really know why the two were associated in my head, but there was a sense of finality to the way the crow defecated and flew away, leaving his mark behind. I thought it was pretty analogous to the way so many of us want to digest life, getting the most we can out of it so that we can crap out a glorious legacy before dying and leaving this earth.

I mean, it seems so simplistic. We go on learning, building, destroying, and loving and then we die. That should be depressing, but honestly, when I think of myself and the people I love as non-invincible, I feel on the periphery of some kind of wonder. It’s kind of humbling and simultaneously empowering to realize that no matter what we do or don’t do, what we achieve or don’t achieve, death is the one thing everyone gets to do. It makes me feel honored, because people like Gandhi and MLK died too. And then my ashes will become soil and the carbon from my body will be a part of new life, just like I got that carbon from stars that died their own, brilliant deaths. In the grand scheme of things, I mean both nothing and everything. Sigh, existentialism.

I should clarify, the prospect of dying also scares the crap out of me the way those children scared it out of that crow. It’s not like I’m looking forward to death or claiming to know what it’s like, and when I think about a world in which the ones I love the most no longer exist, I sense the deep holes death can carve. My family and I’ve talked about this a lot, as we tend to do with the things that make us most uncomfortable (you can either call us growth-oriented or masochistic). My parents have said they wish to be cremated after they die, and have their ashes scattered in various places. My Mom has said that she wants part of her ashes scattered in the Ganges and part of them used in my garden for planting. When I heard that, I oddly enough felt so alive I wanted to cry (big surprise). I think that’s because I realize that the love inside living beings is as warm as death is cold, and that can transfer to new life, just like carbon. I know that death is just another fact in the path of life, for every specie, and that it will be me giving those ashes meaning. I will draw from the flowers born of it a life beyond their photosynthetic functions. I don’t know if that’s crazy, but if I can see symbolism in a crow’s process of digestion, I think I’m allowed to find my mother in a bed of flowers.

What are Your Plans for the Future? A Long Answer that Isn't Really Even An Answer.

All of a sudden I am the person I spent so much of my life preparing for: the young woman who has studied abroad and is now going to graduate from college. Cue the real world? Whatever that looks like, whenever that comes, I’m having a hard time answering to it. Most people have never heard of my major, and when that inevitable follow-up question tumbles out about my post-grad career, my response is never really straightforward. 

I have stood steadfastly by my academic and professional decisions from the start, but that belies the twinge of uncertainty I feel every time I explain (or inwardly justify) my vision for my future. I am so scared that I screwed up or that I am about to screw up. Comfortingly, I'm pretty sure I'm not alone. I’m surrounded by people like me: young and on the precipice of the very future whose promise has carried us through every tough moment up to this point. We are pumped full of our families support and praise and we are scared shitless about what comes next. We swim in this pool of fear as we are asked by people, by society, by the voices in our heads what we plan on doing with all that we've been given and all that we’ve worked for. The answers we give are the life jackets we cling to.

As I admit all this, I can’t help but feel presumptuous and ungrateful. I mean, I’m a first-generation American student. My parents immigrated here and worked their asses off so they could help their respective families avoid struggle. Then they met each other, got married and continued to work their asses off so that the family they created together didn’t have to struggle. As a result, growing up (you guessed it) I didn’t really have to struggle, at least not in the same way they did. I have been blessed with the luxury of being able to discover my passions and build my life around them.

That’s the point, right? My parents did all that they did so that I could dream big. They’ve supported every decision that I’ve made, and have respected that I have pursued my own wishes, even when doing so contradicted what would generally be expected of me as a studious, focused youth who is competent in the hard sciences (read: medical school).  I don’t believe that I’m disappointing my parents-that’s proven hard to do, they’re pretty special people-but becoming a doctor (or lawyer or businesswoman or engineer) are good ways to give back to this world that has so graciously accommodated me at the same time as doing justice to all the work my parents did, all the hope and pride that aunts and uncles and grandparents and teachers have had for me over the years. Isn’t it?

And yet, if you ask my parents what they hope for my future, they say without reservation, in all the languages they speak and with every ounce of sincerity they possess: “I want her to be happy.” There are no contingencies; they even give me the freedom to establish my own definition of happiness. Sure, they have their fears, they don’t want to me to settle, they want me to see myself as big as they see me and my future. But they always come back to this simple answer.

So, Mom and Bob, I promise you this: No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I will understand happiness (Shari's already on top of this). When I’m unhappy, I will remember that it’s okay to be so and that I will be happy again at some point. I will take care of those I love, of this world around me and I will do my best to share my happiness. I will raise a family to carry on your legacy that teaches about the potency of love and the pervasiveness of joy. I will respect myself and take strength from my decisions, because that grows the roots of happiness deeper. I will sometimes call you crying and then come to you later when the tears have dried and there’s a smile on my face. For right now, that is the best way I can think of to thank you. Knowing you two, I have a feeling it will be enough. 

That is, of course, until the time comes for grandchildren. 

Lots of phrases that describe my best friend.

I knew I’d miss a lot of people when I left the country, but I don’t think I expected that the person I’d miss the most would be my brother. Tonny, or Tushar, or as everyone calls him Shari. I guess it makes sense; we’ve always been close. For a while, a lot of that came from me being really protective. But I haven't necessarily been able to relate to him all the time. By that I mean we don’t always enjoy doing or talking about the same things. I know that that's natural for a brother and sister, but beyond that, I've felt the compulsion to censor him, because he is the least censored person I know, and I am the most censored person I know and I project that onto him, which most definitely isn’t fair. It’s like I try to mold him into a person that fits into the framework in which I relate to and understand everyone else in my life. I hate the way that makes me sound, because it's basically everything I stand against. But it’s not like it works anyway. Shari will be Shari regardless of how I relate to him, as long as I love him. Ultimately, my controlling tendencies seem to be irrelevant.  And I am so glad for that. It’s something I’m working on, just letting him be, not caring how he sounds or appears, because I think that will annoy him less and will help me grow more. I tend to feel guilty that I do that, and that I seem to require so much to be sure and content and he so little. In the past I’ve thought about sharing all this, but I think at that time I was looking to be reassured that I shouldn’t feel guilty. That never felt like the right reason to talk about my brother, because there is so much more to him than all of that. So now, I'm putting all my cards on the table because that helps me see them better for myself. I think I’m at this point because I understand the concept of guilt better. It seems like guilt has dictated so much of my life, but I think I’m growing out of it. It almost feels childish now, like I’m using it as a crutch to get by, using it as an excuse for holding back.

Which is stupid, because if Shari teaches you anything, it’s to not hold back. And if anyone knows how to be happy, it’s him. He tends to make a life simply a happy affair. Pizza on Wednesday? "Heck yeah!" Run into a teacher or friend at Walmart? (I will bet 3 scoops of gelato that the very next time he goes shopping he will run into at least 2 people who know him). "How are you?! It's good to see you! I love seeing them!" Wanna dump a box of brownie mix in a bowl and call ourselves bakers? "Hell yes. Let me get my apron." Want to clean the house? "Hell no. I love being lazy." Want to chase the doggies around, calling for them in little voices and drawing on their fur? "You are crazy, Sister."

Being around him has a way of lightening the air around you. I guess I’ve taken for granted how much it means to just be in his presence. To be downstairs and hear him shout weird things at the T.V. from upstairs, to have him bug me to do something fun or to get him some candy, to call him from his room to get me a blanket, to hear his sarcastic laugh when my dad says something cheesy, to watch him make a mockery of the choreography on Just Dance, to hear the way he greets my mom (she always gets the most enthusiastic welcome). And he actually wants to hang out with me, he is excited to see me. I’ve had this idea in my head that he’s not supposed to be that excited to see me, that siblings are supposed to be reserved with their feelings, and by default, scorn each other. But screw that shit. My brother is the coolest, greatest guy I know and I want the world to know that I think that. I mean, he bugs the crap out of me, he is stubborn as absolute hell. But my god, I love him.  

Pieces in Florence

Ponte Santa Trinita 

During World War II, the bridges across the Arno River were bombed and destroyed, save for the Ponte Vecchio (“Old Bridge”). Among the ruins was the bridge most beloved by Florentines, Ponte Santa Trinita. The people of Firenze so adored this bridge that following the war, they set out to comb the bottom of the river for the pieces and put it back together. In 1958, they succeeded. And now I walk across that bridge every day to get to school.

Italians: Romantic even in the face of city planning and reconstruction

These people of Florence saw a feature of their city they had loved for centuries, and rather than abandoning it to the will of war and time, they were obstinate with their loyalty to the landmark and their hope for its resurrection. They patiently put her back together, piece by piece. Because that’s how you treat the things you love. And this city will teach you nothing if not about love—love for people, for history, for food, for life. That’s how I know that my time here will be more than an "experience." It will be a relationship, a story of Banicia and Florence, Firenze e me. And as I travel more and create more stories, I think I’ll discover more pieces of myself through those relationships.  

Maybe that’s what wanderlust really is: not simply a desire to see the world, but the pull you feel from actual parts of your spirit that are scattered across different lands, resting in the hands of new people and on the shoulders of historical legacies; at the bottom of bowls of fresh food and beautiful desserts; floating among a few of the seven seas; waving at you from across a stretch of rolling hills; revealed to you in different languages, in old paintings and candid pictures. 

Oh hey, there you are. 

It’s like you become more you as you discover and unite with these aspects of yourself. I guess you can call it one hell of a souvenir. 

If it all fell away, I'd be okay.

I am a fairly anxious person; I always have been. When I was little, I would run through a mental list of my worries on pretty much a bi-weekly basis, anticipating natural disasters and scary monsters. Now, I’m less fearful (except for the dark, that shit is scary), but it’s especially on days like today and yesterday, when I’m thoroughly bathed in love and sunshine and wind and good food and beautiful people, that I realize how little I have to be anxious about.

I go through my cycles, but I’ve spent a lot of time sitting with anxiety lately, trying not to be consumed by it, and I think I’m starting to understand a little bit about its nature. It’s an insecure being, clingier than any partner you’ve ever had. It takes control and instills within you the sense that without it to drive you to take action, you are nothing. It is the relentless spawn of fear, and you feed into its daddy issues. It makes it so that if you aren’t fighting and working to live up to a standard, whether it’s one set by yourself or some other entity, you have failed.

Anxiety is a very familiar sensation for a lot of people, especially college students, and especially college students today. Higher education is basically defined as a vehicle to get you to a type of success or lifestyle that we are supposed to covet, so it’s not a place to just sit and be. It is a marathon, with our future dangling in front of us like some flashy banner, and the whole time we’re running, we’re telling ourselves that once we reach that banner--and only then--we will be worthy human beings.

Well, I have asthma and I hate running.

But, my god, those times when I hug a friend, when I just think of my parents, when I FB chat with my cousins, when I talk to my brother--these hold moments when that banner ceases to hold any significance for me. I realize that if everything, all the education and resume-building and achievements and goals fell away, I wouldn’t be “nothing”, I wouldn’t be a failure. I’d be just fine.

It’s funny, because as soon as I realize that my default state of being is NOT failure, instead of relaxing and taking it easy, I’m propelled forward. It makes me fearless, it makes me adventurous, it injects me with life.  With this newfound sense of agency, I can tell myself this: Fight, not because you don’t want to be nothing, but because you want to be something. Work not because you don’t want to fail, but because you want to be fulfilled. It’s the simplest difference of walking right up to what is rightfully yours to have and be, rather than running away from the darkness that the most fearful parts of you believe that you deserve.

I’m not saying that I’ll never flirt with anxiety again, that I’ve abolished it from my life. I’m saying that the relationship is different now. It’s more on my terms. I guess turning 20 really does make a difference.

So I want to say thank you. Thanks to you who, by virtue of your very smile, embody this reminder to me. You know who you are, and if you don't, I'm probably still referring to you.

Woes of the Perpetually Nocturnal

I hate sleeping. Or at least I hate that I need sleep. When I was younger, it was the saddest thing, being tucked into bed and knowing that the day’s adventures (or lack thereof) were ending. My bedtime was like a looming deadline, hanging over my head and filling me with anxiety about missing out on the magical things that happen late at night after little children go to sleep. Like one time, my mom let me stay up and watch Dogma with her. I was barely 7, but I still remember parts of the movie vividly: angels and explosions and profuse amounts of profanities. But that’s what I mean. If I hadn’t been awake that night, I may never have been able to watch that movie, and I count that among one of my more valuable experiences because I’m pretty sure it planted the seed that blossomed into my admiration (…obsession) for Matt Damon.

My attitude is pretty similar today, except I actually feel tiredness now. But no matter how much I need or want sleep, if I feel like my day hasn’t been satisfying-it’s been boring or disappointing or stressful-then I’ll stay up in the hopes that something will come about to round it out nicely. Even if all I’m doing is watching reruns of British T.V. shows on Netflix, I won’t sleep until I feel like I’ve gotten something out of the day.

And then, I hate napping for the same reasons that I hated going to sleep when I was younger. I don’t want to miss out on anything. While I intellectually understand that sleep gives me energy and functionality, the 7-year-old in me doesn’t think that sleep gives me anything; it only takes away more time that I can be living life. Time already goes by so fast, and I hate to think that so much of it flies away with my dreams at night.

And dreams are just a small consolation, because I only have vivid ones in the last hour before I wake up anyway, and my dreams are not the magical ones that create a place I want to revisit. They’re weird as hell. Like one time I dreamt that a giant storm came and wiped out everything, but then it turned out it was only people in China watching a Youtube video about a storm, and when they paused it the storm stopped. Seriously, what?

My subconscious does a bad job of making sleep attractive.

Still, at the end of the day, there I lay on the couch or on the floor, feeling the need to go to bed and hating myself for it. The only time I ever really want to sleep is in the morning when I’m supposed to wake up. Because at that point I’ve already succumbed to the temptress that is slumber, so why leave her clutches now? It’s so warm, and as soon as I leave her, I’ll begin the whole cycle of avoiding her again. Ugh. It sounds like a cheap love story.

But I guess I’ll talk more about this later, because I am honestly falling asleep right now.