Looking For Bapu

by Anjali Banerjee

  Also by Anjali Banerjee

  Maya Running

  In memory of my grandfathers

  Siddhartha Banerjee and Atul Chandra Roy

  and my dear friend Dotty Sohl

  Your searching mind at last

  finds the object of the search within

  your own heart.

  —Yajur Veda 32.11

  aruda, the Hindu god of birds, is also the king of bird poop. When he brings finches and nuthatches to our feeders, the droppings fertilize the soil. So he's also the god of new grass. He flies direct from India to Seattle, and it doesn't matter that the airports have been closed for a week since the planes hit the Twin Towers.

  Garuda has the wings of an eagle.

  My grandfather Bapu prays to all the gods and goddesses, but he's silent as we trek into the woods to search for barred owls. Bapu marches ahead and I copy his strides, stepping into his giant bootprints in the soil. I'm Anu the Boy Explorer, star of National Geographic, bringing my backpack and birdseed to feed the chickadees.

  “Quiet, Shona,” Bapu whispers. He still uses my Bengali baby nickname, which means “golden,” although I'm already eight and three-quarters.

  I try to be quiet, but my jeans swish and my breathing disturbs the leaves. The air smells of fall—of dampness and leaves. Afternoon sunlight filters through the treetops, and a breeze lifts my hair. No biplanes or helicopters buzz overhead. The sky sleeps in a strange silence.

  Bapu makes many turns, tramples far off the path and finally stops in a clearing. We're far from the house; I can't see the moss-covered roof.

  I sit next to Bapu, so close that his warmth radiates into my leg. His clove and sweet pipe smell mixes with the cotton laundry scent of his shirt.

  My heart beats fast.

  “Soon, Anu, soon,” he says.

  I check every shadow, watch for an owl blending in against a tree trunk. The barred owl hunts by night but also by day, Bapu says. He knows everything. He can name birds by their calls, and he knew it would rain today. The sky clouds over and drizzle spits down. We wait and watch until my legs cramp and then we pull on our ponchos and we're two yellow mushrooms sprouting from the ground. The drizzle turns to rain, and Bapu takes a folded umbrella from his pocket, pops it open above our heads. His fingers quiver.

  If my best friend, Unger, were here, he would complain about the rain streaking up his glasses. The only birds he watches are the plastic ones you use to play badminton.

  “How long do we wait?” I whisper, tapping my foot. I pick up a pebble, drop it, pick it up, drop it.

  Bapu presses a finger to his lips and nods his head in the Indian style, halfway between no and yes. “Patience, Shona. Like the sadhus of India, nah? They meditate for many years in caves without complaint.”

  I tap my fingers in the damp moss. “Don't they get bored?”

  “They leave all thoughts and feelings behind. They strive for that which is unknowable to the human mind.”

  “If it's unknowable, why do they waste their time striving?”

  “Striving is the whole point. They pursue their own inner light.” He points to my chest. “You have inner light.”

  I have my own built-in lightbulb? Like the dome light that goes on when you open the car door? All I can feel is my heartbeat. “Do the birds have inner light too?”

  Bapu waves an arm in a sweeping motion. “The light is everywhere, part of the Absolute, shimmering in everything.”

  His words swirl out and sparkle like magic dust. I try to imagine the inner lightbulbs glowing in the raindrops, in the leaves, in the dirt beneath my fingernails. “I can't see the special light, Bapu. Is there a switch?”

  He chuckles and pats my head. “Ah, Shona. You'll see. Perhaps you'll have to meditate for a full twelve years as the holy men do!”

  “Twelve years?” I'm not even nine. “I could never wait that long.”

  “When your heart aches, you're willing to wait.” Bapu presses a hand to his chest. “I waited two years for your Amma, until her father gave his permission for the marriage—”

  “A whole two years?” I picture Bapu meditating day after day, not even getting up to eat or pee while he waits for Amma. I never got to meet her. She died before I was born.

  “Two years is but a moment in the large scheme of time, Shona.”

  “I'm just over four moments old, then. Two times four equals eight.”

  “Your life is a god's hiccup, but an important hiccup.”

  I imagine the bird-god, Garuda, hiccupping me up, and I glance at the sky, in case he swoops down to swallow me.

  “Bhalo, enough for today, Shona, nah?”

  We get up and hike back through the woods. No owl today. We made too much noise, but I like talking to Bapu. He holds all the knowledge of the universe in his enormous, ancient brain.

  He's walking so slowly that I bump into him, and then he stumbles and falls on his face. The umbrella goes flying and lands with a thump. He must have tripped over a root. I wait for him to get up.

  “Bapu, you okay? Let's go.”

  He doesn't reply.

  “Bapu?”

  I kneel beside him.

  “Bapu?” His fingers aren't trembling anymore, but he's breathing. His lips are turning blue the way my lips get when I'm cold. Bapu's cold, way too cold. Why won't he talk to me? Why won't he move? My stomach does a somersault. Something terrible is happening.

  I drop my pack and run.

  he branches grow thicker and brambles snag my jeans. Which way? Where is the path? I should have remembered where Bapu stepped. His bootprints are gone. Where is our roof ? Nothing but tall trees blocking the light. I'm going the wrong way.

  My breath comes in short gasps. This way, no, that way. What do I do? How do I remember where I've been? A chickadee scolds me, and I remember the birdseed in my pocket. I drop a trail of seed as I run. The rain stops, and sunlight slants sideways through the trees.

  Why didn't I bring the cell phone? I left it on the kitchen counter next to the cordless. I'm so stupid. I should have put it in my pocket, no matter what Bapu said about being quiet in the woods. I'm running forever, and then I see a glimmer of our roof, steam rising from the moss.

  I'm inside and my fingers shake as I punch 911 on the phone. I'm babbling, birdseed spilling onto the floor.

  A nice lady with a calm voice tells me to stay on the line while she sends an ambulance. She's asking my name and I accidentally say Siddhartha Ganguli, Bapu's real name, because I can't think straight.

  “Is your mother home, Siddhartha?” she asks.

  “I'm not Siddhartha, I'm Anu. My parents aren't home yet, just me.”

  “Stay there so you can show the medics where your grandfather is.” She asks how far Bapu is from the house, where in the woods. Down the path, around the bend, and I have to go back to him before all the chickadees eat the seed; his nose must be full of dirt. Maybe the dirt is sliding down his throat into his lungs. Hurry, hurry, I say, and my teeth chatter and the house feels cold although the heat is on.

  “What's your address, honey?”

  “Six nine four Orca Lane. In Oyster Cove.”

  “How old is your grandfather?”

  “Seventy-three.”

  “Is he on any medications?”

  “I don't know—his fingers shake.”

  I answer a million silly questions and then a siren screams up our driveway. I hang up and run out to the ambulance, its red lights whirring. Two men and a blond lady with muscles climb out. They grab bags and a stretcher and we're running through the woods again. Running forever. They're asking me which way.

  “Follow the seed.”

  “Smart kid,” the tall medic says.

  “A little Islam, ain't
he?” the short one mumbles. He's the driver. He doesn't think I heard him.

  “Come on, Dave,” the tall one says.

  My throat tightens. I want to yell that the word is Muslim, not Islam, and I'm not a Muslim anyway, but I don't have time to explain.

  “He's here.” I'm gasping, kneeling beside Bapu, who is wet and covered with dirt. When did that happen? He looks crumpled. “Bapu! Bapu. I'm here.”

  “Hang in there, little man.” The tall medic pulls me out of the way while the others kneel beside Bapu.

  “Like that damned Bin Laden,” the short man mutters. “Check out the beard.”

  “Stop it, Dave!” the blond woman says.

  What has this got to do with Bapu? “You have to help him. He got cold and he tripped.”

  His face looks calm, as if he's secretly talking to the gods. I pick up the wet umbrella.

  The medics are poking a needle in his arm and taking his pulse and talking into a headpiece, reciting numbers and words. I'm getting colder and my legs are logs, but I have to stay with Bapu. He needs me.

  “The kid's in shock.” The woman glances at me.

  “Let's get a blanket to warm you up,” the tall medic says. He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug him off. They're strapping Bapu onto a stretcher.

  “I have to go with him.” I run after them.

  “Whoa—take it easy, little man,” the tall medic says.

  They bounce Bapu all the long way back through the woods— they have to find a clear path for the stretcher. His face is grayish, but it must be the fading light. He looks just like my Bapu—same beard, long nose, shiny bald head—but his eyes won't open and he doesn't hear me.

  They let me climb into the ambulance with him because there's no time and no adult here to care for me. Don't they understand? I care for Bapu, and Bapu cares for me. Sometimes I wish, and I hate that I wish this, that it was just Bapu and me. I love Ma and Dad, but they work all the time. And they make rules. Bapu lets me stay up late when they're not home. He cooks my favorite Indian food and reads Indian comics to me before bed. He tells secrets about the Hindu gods and holy men.

  I'm riding in the back of the ambulance with the tall medic and the blond lady, who lets me hold Bapu's hand. His fingers feel cold.

  “Bapu—wake up.” I glance at the blond lady. “Will he be okay?”

  “We're doing all we can, honey. You keep talking to him.”

  The swerving ambulance makes me want to hurl. “Bapu, it's time for your glass of whisky. I have to beat you at checkers. You said you would make payesh tonight.” Payesh is my favorite Bengali dessert, made with milk and rice and sugar. “You have to help me with homework.”

  He doesn't speak. His eyelashes don't even flutter.

  At the hospital, the doctors whisk him away and leave me wrapped in a blanket in the waiting room. A skinny nurse brings me hot chocolate in a Styrofoam cup.

  “Your parents will be here soon,” she says. “Do you want to change out of that poncho and those soggy boots?”

  “They're my bird-watching gear.”

  “Okay, then.” She puts the cup on the table. “Drink the whole cup. Just read and relax and—”

  “How's my Bapu? How is he?”

  “We're doing everything we can for him.” Her voice is feather-soft but she glances at her watch.

  After she leaves, I pretend to watch the cartoons on TV. They must have given me a special waiting room. There's nobody else in here. I feel empty, cut in half. Ma always said Bapu and I were twins with the same determined jaw and walk—long strides, shoulders back—except Bapu is old and tall. He's bald with a scratchy white beard, while I have an overload of black hair, like Dad. Like that damned Bin Laden. That's what the short man, Dave, said. At school, Curtis calls me Osama Bin Laden, even though I could never plan an attack on a potato bug, let alone the World Trade Center. Neither could Bapu. How could anyone think my Bapu is bad? He's pure and good, and I love him so much that my teeth ache.

  Ma and Dad come rushing in, Ma still in her white medical coat from her office across town, Dad in his tweed jacket from the university, his hair sticking up. Even his beard looks like it ran through a hurricane.

  “Anu, baby!” Ma hugs me tightly. “Are you all right? Where's Bapu?”

  “They took him—he fell in the woods. He won't wake up.”

  “Nurse!” Dad dashes out of the room, and in the hallway the nurse tells him he can't see Bapu because the doctors are working on him. “He's my father, damn it! I have to see him, now!” Dad rushes around, shouting questions, his voice cracking. “Is he alive?”

  “He's alive,” the nurse says. “But he's suffered a massive stroke, and I'm afraid he's slipped into a coma.”

  “Damn it!” Dad yells, and then his voice fades down the hall.

  What is a massive stroke? Something invisible and heavy. A Massive Stroke fell on Bapu, knocked him out, pressed his nose into the dirt. My fingers go numb, and my teeth still chatter. I've never heard Dad yell that loud. My dad doesn't yell at all.

  Ma sits beside me and rests an arm around my shoulders. Her hand feels light compared to Bapu's. “How are you? Are you okay, baby?” She takes off her glasses. She looks bare without them, like a turtle without a shell.

  “Can you save Bapu, Ma?” My voice comes out raspy. Ma's a doctor. Maybe she can fix Bapu, but she operates on stomachs and Bapu has dirt up his nose. Does Ma know about noses?

  “The doctors here are excellent,” she says, hugging me.

  I silently ask Garuda, king of flight, to swoop down and save Bapu, to pull the Massive Stroke off him. I can't remember any other gods right now.

  “Tell me what happened,” Ma says, her arm around me. She glances at the TV.

  I tell her as best I can.

  “Whatever happened, baby, it wasn't your fault,” Ma says.

  “Bapu would've fallen anyway, in the woods or at home, okay? This had nothing to do with you.”

  She's wrong. I didn't run fast enough. I let Bapu get too cold. Now my teeth are chattering, even with the blanket around me.

  “Let's get you out of those clothes, okay?” Ma tries to pull off the poncho but I squirm out of her grip and sit in another chair. I can't concentrate when she squishes me.

  I keep praying to Garuda. I make a bargain. I will be good. I will do all my homework. I'll ignore Curtis calling me names. I won't imagine tripping him or punching him. I'll spend hours sitting still in the woods, not moving, not thinking, not breathing while I look for a barred owl. I count to fifty. When I get to fifty, the nurse will come and say Bapu woke up. I will practice short division and not steal sweets before supper. When Bapu arranged offerings around the statue of Lord Shiva in his room, I stole a handful of fennel. I won't do that again, ever. I don't need presents for Christmas. I could go maybe five Christmases without presents or a tree. I don't need Christmas ever again.

  Is that enough? I can pray every morning. I don't chant prayers the way Bapu does. I don't understand Bengali. But I could pray, and I will, if you save Bapu.

  Ma comes over to sit beside me. She holds the cup of hot chocolate to my lips and rubs my back, and I take a sip. The liquid tastes so sweet and warm, I could drown in it. Then a doctor comes in—he doesn't have Dad with him. Where is Dad? The doctor shoves his hands in the pockets of his white coat. Why do doctors always wear white? We stand up immediately. “How is he?” Ma asks.

  “I'm sorry,” the doctor says. “We did what we could.”

  “What? Oh, no.” Ma collapses into the chair. It's just me standing there, staring at the doctor.

  “Can I see Bapu?” I ask. I'm shaking, my knees wobbly.

  “I'm sorry, son,” the doctor says. “Your grandfather passed away a few minutes ago.”

  “No! No! My Bapu didn't die!” Someone else is screaming, a stupid little kid with my voice.

  Dad comes in, his face glistening with tears, his eyes red, and he and Ma hug so tightly, they could be one person. I've never
seen my dad cry. Dads don't cry. He makes funny blubbering noises. He's not my dad. I want my dad back. I want Bapu.

  My eyes water, and the room goes blurry as if the gods forgot to turn on the windshield wipers. Then I lean over and throw up. Nothing much comes out. I can't help it. My stomach hurts. I heave and heave, doubled over, and then a warm breeze touches my shoulder and a whiff of clove and sweet pipe wafts into my nose. I turn around, and there's Bapu.

  ou're a growing boy, Anu,” Bapu says, clear as day. “You must remember to have supper.” He squats in front of me and looks into my eyes. Bapu, in his yellow poncho, his bald head shiny, his beard damp from the rain. He grins, and a deep dimple forms in his left cheek while his left eyebrow rises. My Bapu's familiar smile.

  My lips tremble and my chest fills with relief. He's here. It's really him. “Bapu!” I lunge forward to hug him.

  My arms go right through empty air and I hit the floor, banging my knees. “Bapu!” He's gone, but he was here. The sweet pipe smell stays behind.

  Ma reaches for me again, but I twist away, breathing fast. Dad sits with his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands.

  “I want to see him,” I burst out. “He was here. Standing there.” I point. The doctor is wrong. He can't see what's right in front of him.

  He nods kindly. “Of course, you all may see him. Come with me.”

  We rush down the hall. The doctor shows us into a dimly lit room. The window is open a crack, letting in a wet breeze. Bapu's lying on a high bed, hands clasped over his chest. He never sleeps on his back. He sleeps on his side, with one arm hanging off the edge, and he snores with his mouth open.

  I run to the bed. Bapu's face is calm. He will open his eyes, sit up and talk to me.

  I touch his hand. His fingers feel cool. Ma and Dad and the doctor stand off to the side, letting me have my time with Bapu. They don't know my secret. “You can come back now,” I whisper. “I saw you. You don't have to pretend.”

  Bapu doesn't move or breathe. Then I notice the gray tinge on his lips, his skin, and I'm so afraid, my teeth chatter.