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Belinda Subraman |
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My Indian In-laws I remember India: palm trees, monkey families, fresh lime juice in the streets, the sensual inundation of sights and smells and excess in everything. I was exotic and believable there. I was walking through dirt in my sari, to temples of the deities following the lead of my Indian in-laws. I was scooping up fire with my hands, glancing at idols that held no meaning for me, being marked by the ash. They smiled at the Western woman, acting religious, knowing it was my way of showing respect. It was an adventure for me but an arm around their culture for them. To me it was living a dream I knew I could wake up from. To them it was the willingness to be Indian that pleased. We were holding hands across a cultural cosmos, knowing there were no differences hearts could not soothe. They accepted me as I accepted them, baffled but in love with our wedded mystery. Indian Pop I've been thinking a lot about you lately and our last visit in '94, long before the tsunami ripped the Indian shores. You were always watching to see if I would be judgmental of Indian ways but you saw me in awe of everything. In Chennai, then Madras, you took me inside the temples, smiled and called me an honorary Hindu. Sudha had draped me in a sari and my forehead was dotted with kum-kum. By '98 divorce had forced an ending to our relationship Indian Pop, you are gone from me if not from this world. I am thankful to have been your honored guest and your humble daughter- in-law. Your sweetness lives on in my heart. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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