Wordless Encounters

I knew I shouldn’t be awake, but my internal clock was still set to New York. My restlessness combined with hunger had betrayed me and brought me to the kitchen. We had flown into India the night before. Jetlag and excitement prevented me from sleeping. I had wandered the house, looking for sources of entertainment and perhaps a paperclip to reset my disabled iPod Touch. But now, at five in the morning, ominous and steady footsteps approached, leaving not enough time to escape the dining room. The footsteps were getting louder. 

I launched myself under the dining table and quickly but quietly slid a chair in front of me to help hide my body, blocking my exit in the process. The figure entered the dining room, like I feared it would, through a door adjacent to the dining table. My small, six-year-old body didn’t feel small enough, as I curled up and cramped in my Star Wars pajamas. The figure continued past the table to a cabinet across the room. I saw the silhouette in the blunt light and realized it was Baba. 

I held my breath. I never really understood what it was about Baba that made it impossible not to be in awe of him. He seemed like a superhero even as he aged. Whether it was the stories of him standing up to thugs on buses or chasing down burglars on rooftops, or just his incredibly stoic presence, everyone respected him. 

He stood like a soldier with a perfect posture even at five in the morning, even with his relatively short frame. With steady hands, he slowly opened the cabinet doors to reveal a small temple. It showcased miniature figurines and pictures of gods, all of different sizes, lined up in a messy formation. There were also framed pictures of people I didn’t recognize. 

Baba picked up a small book that could easily fit in his pocket and began to sing softly. Although it was as quiet as a whisper, he sang to himself and to his cabinet for a while. In his old voice, the songs weren’t pretty. They didn’t have a specific emotion that I could decipher. They felt like a ritual: a monotonous tone, made out of habit rather than hobby. I wondered why he was singing. I wondered if he did this often.

I watched in silence under the table. I didn’t understand anything he said; it felt like an intimate exchange that I wasn't invited to. I was suddenly all too aware of my intrusion. My extended family had always looked at me with frustration and pity. I had trouble understanding them, and them me. We didn’t talk about anything other than the polite formalities that were expected of us. Why, then, should I be privy to what they do when they are alone? 

When I noticed the room went silent, I looked towards the cabinet, but Baba was gone. I climbed out from under the table and jumped. Baba stood in front of me. I stepped back, nervous that he would be mad at me for watching. He analyzed me, not saying a word. I looked at the floor since I had nothing to offer him, no words that he would understand without my parents translating. I figured he would start asking me questions in Hindi, questions that would frustrate my young brain for lack of recognition.

Instead he turned, approached the cabinet, picked up a small bowl, and returned. He offered it to me, so I could see its contents. Inside were what looked like miniature snowballs about the size of a pea. I picked one out and inspected the insignificant, slightly sticky object in my sweaty palms. Baba motioned with his hand to his mouth, indicating that I should eat his gift, so I did. Pure sweetness exploded in my mouth. I let it melt for a moment before finishing it off. Without a word, Baba went back to his room. 

Sleepiness arrived as the sun came up. I made my way back to the guest room where my mom and sister still slept. I laid awake in our shared bed that morning despite my fatigue, and despite the rest of my family finally waking up for breakfast. 

Twelve years later and language, cultural, and geographical barriers still stand between Baba and me. There is hesitance from us both to approach each other, which limits our interactions. Baba is the only grandparent I have, and yet our relationship is bound by these barriers. Still, I constantly find myself looking back at that morning’s wordless encounter where for a moment, as he silently handed me the sweet, we understood each other.