I nodded but didn’t feel the same sense of pride he seemed to have in my profession. How could I when despite the tragedy going on with my family, my boss kept checking in to see if I’d had a chance to input his notes into a brief or find some additional case law? And all those emails ended with him asking when I’d be returning to work. My law firm life seemed so insignificant and far away from what mattered now.
Monali Auntie turned to me. “You may not remember, but this is Anand Uncle. He’s Biren’s father.”
“Oh! I see the resemblance now,” I said, thinking back to the tall boy with the Australian accent whom I’d met earlier. His father had the same large, kind eyes as Biren, a lighter tint of brown than most people in India had.
Someone across the room motioned for Monali Auntie, so she excused herself and left me with Anand Uncle.
“I saw Biren yesterday.” Not recalling too much about Anand Uncle but knowing that jobs were a safe topic of conversation in India, I started there. “He said he’s doing pharmacy now. It must be busy for you to run the family business on your own. And Monali Auntie said you are doing so much charity work as well.”
Anand Uncle slowly bobbled his head from side to side. “We are lucky the business is doing well, and we are in a fortunate position to help those in need. But now is not the time to discuss those types of matters. Is there anything I can do to be of service to you or your family?”
“That’s very kind of you to ask,” I said, instantly liking him and thinking that his calm yet distinguished demeanor reminded me of Nana when he had been alive.
I was both surprised and intrigued that Anand Uncle was the first person in India who didn’t want to talk about work. For everyone else, it seemed to be the topic most squarely in their comfort zone, myself included. His eyes were inviting, making it easy to be honest with him. “The only thing I really want is some kind of distraction from all of this—even if just for a minute—but now isn’t the time for that either.”
He nodded solemnly. “Maybe not. But if you can find a moment to be happy or to laugh, it is worth taking.”
I mulled over his words. It was good advice. And it was nice to think that some of those moments would come again, because for the past few days, it hadn’t seemed like they would. I gave him a timid smile. “Thank you, Uncle.”
He offered his condolences again before he left the waiting room. I watched him leave, thinking that Biren was lucky. When dealing with my own parents, I’d always known to use a filter. But Anand Uncle seemed like someone his kids could easily open up to and approach when seeking advice about major decisions in life like careers, or family, or love. He seemed like the kind of parent Neel and Dipti would have been.
Uma’s funeral was two days later. Dipti’s father, Raj Uncle, had arrived the day before and had hardly left Dipti’s side. I didn’t blame either of them, but I could tell Neel felt even more shut out than he had before his father-in-law arrived.
In a caravan of cars, we made our way to the banks of the Sabarmati River. The pyre was already being built by the Brahman and his helpers. The tiny coffin rested at the center.
I, like the others, wore simple white clothing. White represented purity and was the traditional color of death in Hindu culture. My hair fell loosely down my back. An elaborate hairstyle would have been inappropriate. The breeze near the banks of the river blew through my hair, gently lifting and lowering the strands. The sand near the banks was a darker brown than the light grains on the beaches in Los Angeles.
Branches were organized around the tiny coffin. The baby’s body faced south, which I remembered was convention. The Brahman began chanting prayers in Sanskrit, his voice soothing and powerful. Occasionally, I heard him say Bhagwan and knew he was praying that God take care of Uma. My niece. My bhatriji.
This funeral was different from any other I’d been to. I’d never gotten a chance to know Uma, to hear her laugh, to spoil her with presents, to capture her smile through my lens. Still, the sense of loss weighed fully on me. It made me wonder whether the things I’d learned as a kid, like reincarnation, could exist. Maybe Uma was already in a better place, living a better life. Maybe Dipti’s mother had found Uma and was looking after her in another life. When faced with a situation such as this, I had to believe there would be more to her short life. And I looked at my own life and wondered whether I had done enough with it. The gift of life felt so precious, and I could not stop myself from feeling like I should be doing more with mine than writing briefs for the Warden. I was, after all, one of the lucky ones who got to live.