by Amy B. Scher
We pay about twenty American dollars and are free to go. Pierced and high on our impulsive decision, we leave the shop—two schoolgirls who have just taken their parents’ car without asking.
“What do you think the other kids will say?” Mom asks curiously as we walk back toward the hospital.
“Lauren will hate it,” I reply confidently, because my sister is the most straitlaced of our bunch and would definitely file this under what were you thinking? “David won’t care at all,” I predict, because he is both super laid-back and a serious mama’s boy. She does no wrong in his eyes.
“And what about Dad?” she questions next.
“He’ll totally love it!” I assure her. My dad loves everything about her and I don’t think this will be any exception. I adore how my parents let each other be who they are. They don’t drag each other to activities the other one wouldn’t enjoy, never get mad or jealous if one does something fun without the other, and don’t ask each other for permission to be themselves.
I fleetingly wonder what Jay would think about this new addition to my face. What I do with my nose and my life is no longer any of his business, but I still find myself tangled in the aftermath of our complicated love.
I learned early on that Jay and I worked best when we were floating blissfully in the whirlwind of us. Even before I got sick and the days of partying and fun were long gone, I began to see that our love was built in a bubble. While we did epically better than I might have predicted if I’d known what was to come, I saw that when stressful forces shook our world—an issue at work, a family strain, even just a fight with each other—we splintered a little. I made it my job to compartmentalize feelings, thoughts, and even my relationships with other people to protect our chamber of happiness.
There were times when Jay drank a lot, especially after I got sick. And these were the times he’d sometimes become resentful, jealous, or unhappy with me for any little reason. And by this time, I had transferred my sensitivity about upsetting my parents to my fear of upsetting Jay. I developed a persistent case of it’s-my-fault syndrome, believing when he was upset or in an off mood, it had to be because of me. I jumped to overcompensate for tensions in our relationship. “I know you don’t mean it,” I’d say when he said hurtful things to me. When he didn’t come home or call as promised, I’d reassure him: “I know this isn’t you.” I ran to excuse him, to take blame, to save him from himself—and from breaking my heart.
Would Jay think this piercing was a cool and independent move, or would he be irritated that I’d done something cool and independent without him? Even now, ten thousand miles away, I am still hard at work in my head wondering what would make him happy.
It was about a year into our romance, just as the novelty of my cool bleached-blond hair was wearing off and my liver was tiring from all the booze, that I started to see how tugged and torn I was between the real me and the me that fit best with Jay.
“I don’t feel like drinking today,” I said one Sunday afternoon, as we got ready to go to Mike and Mallory’s house for a barbecue. Mike and Mallory are a kind, mellow couple, Jay’s longtime friends—who were always with a cocktail in one hand and a joint in the other.
“You’re just not as fun when you don’t drink,” Jay replied quickly, as if he’d been waiting to tell me this forever.
Crushed, I cheerfully consoled him. “I will totally have fun even if I don’t feel like drinking.”
“It’s not the same,” he rebutted.
“Okay, maybe I’ll have a couple of drinks,” I compromised, and off we went to Mike and Mallory’s in a car stuffed with silence.
“What’s up?” Mallory asked me in the kitchen as soon as we got a second alone.
I could confide in Mallory, because even though she was friends with Jay first, she was always on my team.
“I’m not fun when I don’t drink,” I shared. I turned my head in Jay’s direction as he chatted with Mike. Mallory flipped her ash-colored bangs into the air with the breath from her hearty laugh.
That day, each time my glass was empty, Mallory grabbed it from me and brought it to the drink station she had set up in the kitchen. I saw her refill my cup six different times: lemonade only, no vodka.
I kept chugging.
On the patio later, Jay leaned into my stone-cold sober body with a lit cigarette and whispered, “You are so much fun tonight! See why I love it when you drink?”
When I went inside the house, I mouthed in wide words to a totally baked Mallory, “Thaaank yooouuu.” She nodded back and winked, exhaling from her pipe.
This story is both small and insignificant, and also everything. Because it would repeat itself over and over in so many different ways. This story represents a million things that I ignored in our relationship, a million things that, had I listened to them, would have made my life difficult while I was busy forcing it to go smoothly. This is a story I’ll never forget, a story that will come into my mind often when I try to push away the things I’m noticing about my life. The world is always telling us stories about who it thinks we should be. But it’s up to us to know and own our own truth.
On that day, for whatever reason, I recognized that Mallory’s story was the same truth my heart was trying to speak to me: I am good enough just how I am. For the record, I am also a damn good time on pink lemonade.
I can feel that truth today, pierced right through my nose. I feel a little bit out of character, but I’m also surprised by how me it actually feels.
When Mom and I return to the hospital, my dad is where we left him, carefully studying the user’s manual for his new Indian alarm clock. He looks up from his inch-thick magnifying glass and notices our gold-adorned noses.
“Where’d you get that?” he asks, his eyes glistening toward my mom. But before we can answer, he lifts his hands to the air in disbelief and confirms what we already knew. “It’s really fucking awesome!” My dad never left the sixties. He raised us on Carole King, Paul Simon, and James Taylor. Peace, love, and fun are his religion. At this moment, we are shining examples of his spirit, and it’s no secret he is totally loving it.
In India, I may be coming undone, but I am also becoming unclenched.
In these past few weeks, I have started to suspect that life cannot be manhandled and things cannot be perfect. No matter how hard I try to force them, I cannot be anything close to the vision of my strongest, most pulled-together self. And because of this, I feel the urge to stop trying so hard—something that is impossible for me at home. In this erratic and free-for-all country, it is becoming clear what the crushing pressure of holding on so tight has done to me. Not only has it made my life harder than it needs to be, but I start to really wonder how much this pattern has affected my body too. What is the cost of clinging to stability and consistency?
Up to now, I have tried to control everything and have ended up sick, in a foreign country, and battling for my health. While I suppose it could be worse (or maybe not), let’s face it: my regimen of control may possibly not be the most effective approach to life. I think it’s time to let go.
When I decide I am ready to start letting go, I recognize that I don’t even fully know what letting go means, because I am such an expert at holding on.
I hold on to fear about my body and my future.
I hold buckets of resentment from my past.
I hold frustration and bitterness because there was no cure for me at home.
I hold on to relationships with people whom I let tell me who I am.
I hold on to grudges like they are gems that will one day make me rich.
I hold tight to the idea of how I think things should be.
I hold myself to impossible standards, responsible for everything and everyone.
I decide to define letting go as going with the flow of life instead of fighting it. I will no longer try to manipulate the unchangeable. I will not swim upstream, against the current, like the one stupid fish in the river going the wrong way,
the hard way. I’m pretty sure I’ve been that fish.
It seems there is no better place to try this than in the magical, glorious chaos of India. If I can conquer letting go here, I can conquer it anywhere.
From now on, here’s the deal I make with myself. If it won’t kill me to go with the flow, I will. And if I can’t let go, I will accept the horrendous feeling of being dragged—the emotional torment of trying to wrestle with what is beyond my control, like time, space, my dislike for saag paneer, traffic jams all damn day, air I can’t breathe without choking, and wherever the Universe is intent on taking me.
When I first begin this experiment of letting go, I’ll fail quite a few times, only to rein my efforts back in like a cowboy who temporarily lost the lead on his horse. Let go, it’s okay. Let go. Then, No no no, you idiot! Fight! Then again, Let go. Each time I feel resistance rising within me, I remind myself of my two choices—let go on my own or be dragged. Soon it feels like letting go is almost always the better option.
When I find myself resenting the beeping horns outside, I decide to lean into them. I study the traffic, observing carefully to see what they are honking about. I am fascinated to find that all the honking is actually a language: instead of using blinkers to indicate their next move, drivers beep before they change lanes and even when they are saying thank you to another driver for letting them merge. This does not immediately make me a fan of the beep beep beeps, but it makes me part of the game instead of an enemy of it.
When I see Dr. Shroff in physio and she asks me the usual “How are you?” I start to panic. I want to run away, preempting an attack on whatever she thinks I am doing wrong. When I decide to let go and speak the truth—that some things are good and some are not—she tells me to focus on the good, that I can heal myself, and that I must let go of all thoughts that are not working for me. “I’m trying!” I agree genuinely and with a smile. This is the first time I feel her words not as criticism, but as a message with some kind of truth. There is a new softness in our exchange. She even notices the nose ring and tells me it’s cute. I think we are making progress. Maybe.
I press on, proud of my successes, making a brand-new conscious decision in each moment: to turn away from the fight within me . . . and let go.
I do it each evening when the sister comes to do my IV and doesn’t use the disinfecting protocol that the nurses at home would. Let go. I make the decision when the tuk-tuk driver promises he knows where he’s going and then loops around the city for two hours because he clearly doesn’t. Let go. I make the decision when I see the hospital’s “premier dry-cleaning service provider” set up on the street corner, hanging my delicates from a makeshift clothesline, then beating them with a wooden stick for all the world to see and all the city’s dust to cling to. Now I know why my laundry has been returning with holes. Let go. It is really not long before I learn that letting go won’t kill me and I start to enjoy it.
And that’s how I end up packed into a car with my parents and our bags on a winter road trip to Agra—the famous city in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh, and home to the Taj Mahal. Because there is nothing that throws you out of your comfort zone more than agreeing to head off into the great wild of India for a four-hour drive with a stranger behind the wheel.
My parents have been gently cheerleading, asking me to consider a trip outside the city’s perimeter. Up until now, I have been too worried about how I’d feel, what I’d eat, and being in the car for so long while I’m so emotionally unsteady. But it is now, after three weeks of keeping company with the most unstable version of myself I’ve ever known, and surviving it, that I have agreed to visit the magnificent spiritual mecca of the Taj Mahal.
Dr. Shroff has approved me to leave overnight. “Good! You will not focus on illness there,” she tells me.
“True!” I reply, with sincerity that matches hers.
Most of the patients here have already made the journey to the Taj and have told us we must see it. “You can’t go to India and not see the Taj Mahal!” “It’s only four hours away. How could you not?” “It’s unimaginable, you’ll see. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.” I am a total antitourist, typically avoiding these types of excursions like the plague, but I am also desperate to flee Delhi.
Carpe diem!
The ride to Agra, home to the beloved and spiritually magnetic mausoleum, is rough and rugged, like all car journeys here. It feels like there is no asphalt beneath our wheels and we are simply being dragged over rocks and potholes toward our destination.
Our English-speaking driver, Raj, chats in his thick, melodious accent most of the way. Raj is well educated, but tells us that unless he has enough money to bribe someone in India, he cannot get a good job.
“If only I could buy a car instead of working for someone else,” he declares, “I would be reeeech!” But with the tiny salary he gets, there is just no way to get ahead. “Your America truly theee laaand of opportunity!”
Driving past the government officials’ mansions, which look like they are located in the Beverly Hills of Delhi, he points a finger out the window and says, “Theeese are the homes of the corruption leaders.” He doesn’t crack a smile.
I am absorbing the sights and sounds from the window in awe, camera in hand, trying to capture the things that fly by too quickly. Dad is in the front seat doing the same, and my mom is in the back with me, peering out the window in wonder. In between capturing shots of wild boars running, children dancing, and men pushing food carts of every kind, I use the technique I’ve learned to avoid getting carsick in India: look out the side window, only and always. When I’ve looked through the front window here, I want to jump out and walk, convinced it’s the only way to arrive at my destination alive.
During every car ride, you are guaranteed to come face-to-face with cows s-l-o-w-l-y crossing the road, causing the driver to terrifyingly swerve with no warning; cars skidding into oncoming traffic to make a left turn; people running in front of your taxi to sell you a calendar in Hindi, or a single carrot; and a host of other absurdities. If you ever visit this hectic, amazing country, simply focus on one thing when traveling by car: side window only.
One of the towns we pass through looks as if it is made from nothing but brightly dyed trash. It appears that a bomb has exploded, scattering a sea of rainbow candy wrappers. Animals and children play among the piles of rubbish as if they are there for the purpose of pure enjoyment. People are drinking from puddles of water outside their huts, which are made of mud and sugarcane. Kids are playing naked. People living along the sides of this stretch of road to Agra have no money to eat and are drinking and bathing in filthy water, but have goats that seem to be worth a fortune. The furry friends are lovingly decked out in sweaters, bells, and jewels.
This would be the mother of all MasterCard commercials:
Bottled drinking water: $1
Enough rice to last a week: $6
Making your goat’s wardrobe a priority: PRICELESS
We arrive at the Taj just in time to see several phases of the sunset in its last hour before dusk. Raj parks and shows us where we go next, to meet our already-assigned tour guide. Cars and buses are not allowed to come within five hundred meters of the entrance. This prevents vehicle exhaust from tarnishing the building.
The rush to enter the glorious Taj Mahal is like trying to get into Boston’s Fenway Park—everyone is crammed in line to get to the front first, only to go nowhere at the same time.
Men in one line and women in another, we are patted down and our bags are lazily searched, with the guards often looking in another direction while they do their rummaging. My backpack is full of pill bottles, tubes of lip moisturizer, and the single roll of toilet paper I carry everywhere after learning the hard way that some venues in India are BYOTP.
Once we are declared weapon-or-whatever-free, we flood through the entrance and get our first glimpse of the opulent architectural icon. Beyond the sprawling garden and grand fountain that opens
before us, we see the Taj Mahal, meaning Crown of the Palace, standing at a towering 240 feet. It is made entirely of ornately carved, glistening white marble. There are four huge pillars that encircle the Taj and appear to be protectors, the keepers of this marvelous palatial structure. The pillars are tipped away from the dome ever so slightly, constructed this way so the tomb would be saved if they were ever to crumble.
Inside the gates, the race begins for photo opportunities. It is a sea of cameras, bobbing heads hidden behind them.
We see a sign with our name on it and wave to our tour guide.
“Hello! Ready for photo?” he asks, and escorts us over to get the best shots. We fall into pose quickly for our family photo at the freakin’ Taj Mahal in India!
“This Taj was built for Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan’s favorite wife!” our guide explains, swinging his hand up in a circular motion toward it. I immediately snub my nose at this whole “favorite wife” thing, until I learn that the emperor had it built for her as a tomb, after she died during the birth of their fourteenth child. Any woman who had that many children deserved to be the “favorite.” It turns out she was the third and the favorite. But I do wonder if he told all his wives that.
We wander around for quite a while, our shoes hiding under the required cotton covers that protect the gardens and the ground of this forty-two-acre complex. I never realized how massive the entire area would be. I am going slowly, at a turtle’s pace, because that’s the only way I can keep up right now. But I am still going.
Mom and Dad are spaced generously around me. It is now that I feel something I have not felt in quite a while: the ease of my parents. Through the past years, I have been acutely aware of their worry, their cautionary observation of me when they think I might be in pain or discomfort. But right now, I am once again their little girl, and they are just regular parents able to enjoy a new family adventure.
As we continue our stroll through the grounds and toward the Taj, we see women draped in saris sitting on the lawns, little lime-green parrots perched in trees, and photographers getting the shots of a lifetime. The closer we get, the more impressive the massiveness of the building becomes. Over a thousand elephants were used to carry materials here from all over the world. The white marble from Rajasthan is what the Taj is most recognized for, but the different stones that are inset in the marble is what gives it life: jade, crystal, turquoise, jasper, lapis lazuli, sapphire, and carnelian. It took decades to complete this masterpiece. It looks like it would take no less.
