September 7, 1970. New Delhi, India,

Daily, early in the morning, just before sunrise, I hear the pipes surging noisily during the two hour rationed water time. I clamber off the bamboo mat on the floor, dash swiftly to the kitchen, switch the light on–––the bare bulb hanging down from the center of the ceiling, grab the simple earthen clay pot in the left hand corner and fill it to the brim with fresh water from the single tap nearby in the right hand corner, and heave the pot, now weighted down with water back into the left-handed corner, without slamming it down too quickly, as I was aware of its delicate nature:  it could crack.

 

Amma shouts, jaldi, jaldi, Vijaya, before the water stops flowing. I can hear other children in the apartments all around us rushing around, their moms shouting, too, urgently but kindly.

I run quickly to the bathing room, fill up two big plastic buckets  and two old brass pots, one after the other, one for each of the four of us to bathe with, lean each heaving bucket with small waves rubbing against each other on the grey concrete wall; and then fill up one large, old brass pot to cook with for the kitchen, place it near the set off washing area, and then, finally, grab the large plastic bucket for the latrine, and fill that up with the small water tap. The noisy water pipes suddenly dribble down to a thin, quiet trickle matched with the ebbing flow. I made it before the moment of exhaustion flowing through the pipes now. I smile in satisfaction. We will all have enough water for the day.

The brown clay pot covered by a slender clay plate in the kitchen has a downward facing stainless steel tumbler sitting atop of it. I pick it up and swoop it into the cool water. I notice it has Appa’s initials, R.G.N., for Rettakudi Ganesan Nagarajan, etched on it. I miss him. How long is he going to be in America, studying? How many years will we be here without him, alone? There are no families here without both a father and mother in the entire neighborhood. They think our father has abandoned us. Some women tell my mother directly so, without embarasment, in front of me. We are looked at strangely. It has already been a month and it feels already a long time; I remember the single photo we have of him in the front room and try to remember the details of his face, his soft brown eyes, his chubby cheek, and the sternness around his lips and chin. I lift the tumbler up and drink it without its edges touching my lips, swallowing in a rhythmic way, so everyone can share the tumbler without infecting each other.

I love this simple clay water pot sitting elegantly in the corner of the small, coal-darkened kitchen Amma cooks in every day. I touch it softly and feel the delicious coolness. It has a long, extended neck like the trunk of a tiny palm tree. The kitchen is Amma’s world and where she can be mostly found, cooking the three meals we need for all of us, herself and her three young daughters. The water would remain cold all day.

It was one of my daily chores, as a nine year old, to make sure that each of the seven pots–––were filled with fresh water, so that we would all have enough to drink, bathe, cook, and wash ourselves with throughout the heat of the hot September Delhi day.

Some days, Amma shops at the local bazaar. Some days, I shop for her, bargaining over prices of yellow onions, okra, eggplant, potatoes, and if one of us is sick, a special purchase of the familiar smaller than we were used to, bread loaf, slickly covered with the red, white, blue and yellow plastic packaging of Wonder Bread. Here in India, apparently, it had special healing properties, though I don’t remember anyone saying that in America. Plastic was just coming here and everyone loved plastic, saying modern modern with a special shine in their eyes. We really loved plastic, too. It was lighter to carry than the traditional, heavy clay, brass, and copper pots. Other days, the vegetable seller comes directly to the door of our small upstairs flat, shouting “thaazee sabjiyaan, thaazee sabjiyaan” or “fresh vegetables, fresh vegetables”. America is fading away from my imagination. This is my world now.

I love all the small sellers coming and going from all of our doorways. The streets sing abundantly with the songs of these many different kinds of sellers of vegetables, fruits. There were also sellers of small pots and pans, cut cloths, plastic buckets, odds and ends, a different kind of instant, fast delivery, that satisfied small small desires, most of which we knew we didn’t really need.

What did it mean to be able to see the edges of enoughness of our needs, though we also felt we were very much on the edge? We certainly wanted and needed more.

 

Tuesday, September 8, 2020 

Five decades later, this unusual September high heat in Northern California, 99 degrees this past Sunday and 112 degrees in southern California, reminds me of those Delhi summers.

I wonder and marvel at how much the edges of our needs, both as an individual and as a collective, here in America, there in India, have changed so much in the past fifty years. In my lifetime, so much has changed and shifted in the world.

How do we all find a way back to realizing how much we actually need without feeling as if we are going backwards into a time of not enoughness? That is the central question, isn’t it? Are we being forced with COVID and the fires to rethink how much is actually enough for all of us?

I am hoping so. If this time forced us to do this as the entire world, maybe that is one of the silver lining gifts we will take with us on the journey forward. May it be so.

 

 

Wednesday, September 9.

This morning, it seemed as if the sun never came up fully; it kept trying, but its usual rise was halted by several levels of smoke plumes rising to the upper atmosphere, from fires up and down the western states. Thick, dark orange-pink skies-fire engines roaring by without sirens on as if we couldn’t hear them anyway. All day, a peculiar semi-darkness ruled the world of the SF Bay Area, a warning knell on the world we used to know.  A perennial sunset or an all day sunrise waiting behind the stage of foggy smog to awaken us, the plants, the animals, the bird songs disappeared, their confusion stilled in silence, where did they go today? Were they like us, wondering what was happening. Some said it was as if we we had come to inhabit a different planet, Mars perhaps–––a water-less planet. Grieve. Work Hard. Cry. Lift up the voices of the Green New Deal. Help the country see what needs to be done as we speak.