A Letter to the Land

Dear Himalayan wonderland that I call home for the present,

You are a rainbow-studded jewel in the earth and somehow the land I hate to love and love to hate. You flaunt ruby hyacinth, mohawk-plumed birds, temperamental monkeys, and forests of pine. Cows lazily meander over you like fat cats who think they own house and owner. Ice-cold rivers bubble around boys playing in their underpants while their mothers dry sheets and dupatas on oversized rocks, hot as baked potatoes. 

Your people endure. They milk the cow, set paneer, and roll a perfect roti. From just a few screaming pressure cookers, women fashion feasts to feed crowds without the help of frozen lasagnas. Beds are shared with children, in-laws lodge in the next room, and stiff sweaters are knit for winter. 

I admit that I hold you at arms-length. You don’t look or smell like the home I was born into. And you definitely don’t follow its rules. As much as I admire you, I don’t fit into your fabric. I am the foreigner and always will be. So distancing myself and cooling my affections feels like a good idea.

That is, until you break in and offer me a glass of water. Like on the rainy day I fell off my scooty. Face-down in a goofy plastic suit, I was helped to my feet by one of many concerned neighbors. The accident wasn’t serious, but you wouldn’t know it by their soft expressions. One silver-haired lady brought me a cup from her kitchen and told me with motherly conviction that I would feel better if I drank it. Even after returning home, another friend called to check if I was alright, having heard from his uncle’s cousin’s brother’s wife that I had slipped. The next day, two aunties on separate occasions insisted on massaging my sore shoulder. I tried to resist, but both times they yanked at my kurta, warmed up cooking oil from the kitchen, and applied it to my shoulder with the strength of a yak. 

In such moments I feel woven into your fabric. As though I’ve been let in on a secret or invited to the neighborhood cookout. I needed help and you were there in a way that made me feel like I belonged. Not in a position to give, I received your love and kindness like a baby. I wasn’t thinking of our differences, insecure and aloof, nor busily obsessing over the skill of my language and cultural adaption. For once, I looked you in the eyes and not down at my toes. 

When you offer me a cup of water like that and rub the life out of my shoulder with canola oil, you sneak into the crevices of my resistant heart. Like a gun loaded and ready to fire, my mouth can shoot out at bullet speed complaints over what you lack and the rules you break. And in doing so, I miss the green parrots, the children playing cricket in the valley, and the shared laughter that whispers, Welcome. I empty my ammunition for a minute to instead thank you for the afternoon chai, messy hand-eating fun, the resourcefulness and durability of your people, as well as the freedom to wear purple and red together in one outfit and socks with my sandals.

Be patient as I learn to love loving you.