Return to Mumbai - One Year Later

Since my arrival in India, I delayed calling Bharat, Shubi and Simran even after learning of Roopa’s transition. What would I say? Was it culturally appropriate to call? Should I go to Mumbai and skip the Palace on Wheels? These were a few of the questions on the hamster wheel in my head.

The last time I saw Roopa was on March 31, 2006 at her home in the Serenity Heights building in the Malad West section of Mumbai. She was on her bed resting from a chemo treatment and there were many other family members in the room. It was hot and muggy as the lone air chiller in the room worked at maximum output to offset the effects of so many bodies in a 10 x 12 room.

I recall thinking that, given her diagnosis, this could be the last time we would see or even speak to each other. Still, hope springs eternal and Roopa was just beginning her fight. She was optimistic and still busy taking care of me and everyone else as was her nature. Sitting on the edge of her bed after a chemo session, we held hands and I expressed my appreciation and gratitude for all she had shared with me. She knew I was grateful, but took no credit, dismissing her actions as those charged by a higher energy. Affirming her commitment to battle cancer, Roopa said she looked forward to seeing each other at the wedding. Sharing her sentiment and remembering that she was very much alive, I smiled and said that I was already looking forward to my return to India.

Almost one year later, my plane’s wheels once again hit the asphalt in Mumbai. Unlike last time, instead of anxiety over what to expect and how to get around the vast subcontinent, this visit was in part, a return to a second home, one that held many heart felt and soulful memories.

Luggage on the yellow and black taxi’s roof, my head scraping the velvet lined taxi ceiling, and my Mom in the back with the windows rolled down (no AC) we inched our way through the gridlocked city streets. Cows, dogs, motorcycles, pedestrians, buses, ox carts and dump trucks moved together in chaos around us. A 15 kilometer drive could take anywhere from 15 minutes in the middle of the night to 2 hours during commute times.

That evening we waited at the hotel for the arrival of my friend Marc, who had traveled with me on part of my first trip to India. It was on that trip that Roopa had directed us to the Art of Living Basic Course at Sri Sri’s ashram, 26 kilometers outside of the Bangalore city limits. Marc, who had since become a vegetarian, was familiar with Roopa’s invisible spiritual hand in his life. He had also come for the wedding that was now postponed for 2 months. That night I phoned Shubi. After inquiring as to when I arrived in India, her next words caused me to pause, “When are you coming home Todd?”

A few seconds passed as I fumbled over interpretations of what I had just heard and whether I had heard her correctly. Then it dawned on me. She was asking about when I was coming over to her house where we had spent many days together and Roopa had declared me the son she never had. Her words struck a chord deep inside me as a flood of memories came to my mind. “I’ll be over as soon as possible. What time is good for you?”

The following day my Mom, Marc and I took a cab to meet Shubi at her condominium. It was my first visit with Shubi since my departure from Mumbai. Walking into her home, familiar faces appeared from the kitchen like a cast of characters from a play I had seen before. There was Krishna, Manosh and Ashok to name a few of the Gupta’s servants, all of whom had played a role in my well being on my first visit. By the time I left in March, they were calling me their “fair brother”, no doubt due in large part to my lighter skin and the fact that I had spent a few weeks around them during which time they had begun teaching me Hindi.

I was home, but somebody had rearranged the furniture, or had they remodeled? There was something missing. It wasn’t long before I realized that the only thing that had changed was that Roopa wasn’t bursting out of her bedroom with her trademark smile and beaming energy. Staring around the well appointed family room with a Japanese flair (from Roopa), more vivid memories flooded my mind. I could hear Roopa’s upbeat voice saying my name while sitting at the dining table where she had planned my trip as if it were her duty.

Lunch was served as the four of us sat at the glass table where we had enjoyed many meals together. As before, a buffet of sumptuous Indian food was on the menu as Krisha spooned fistfuls of fresh homemade spicy concoctions onto our plates. Our fingers eagerly dug into the rice, yellow daal, black daal, eggplant, potatoes and roti. We were eating Indian style and that didn’t mean sitting in a tightly crossed leg pose, in this instance we used our god given utensils (fingers on the right hand) to eat.

As I watched my Mom discover the true meaning of “finger food” as she stared at the motley collection of food under her fingernails, the conversation at the table ranged from the food to the latest updates on all of the family members to my travels in southern Africa. It wasn’t until the plates were about to be cleared that Shubi began a monologue that would hold us captive for the next hour.

Directly across the table from me, she stared straight into my eyes as she casually shared the events of Roopa’s final days. I was not prepared for the graphic detail and visual details that Shubi revealed, the majority of which I will not recite here. Suffice it to say that in her last month and a half on earth Roopa suffered immense physical pain.

Shubi spent every night in the hospital and Simran took the day shift. Ultimately, Roopa was put on a ventilator, something Roopa saw happen to her own mother and something she never wanted to happen to her. She was unable to speak and her hands were tied to the bed to prevent her from pulling it out.

Sitting transfixed in Roopa’s living room I was slowly being sinking in my chair with each sentence of Shubi’s story. Her heartfelt dramatic delivery tightened a noose around my heart. I did not want to imagine Roopa’s vibrant, electric and magnetic spirit being put through such misery.

Drained and mentally bankrupt, we adjourned from the table and moved to the living room where Shubi finished her story. Two pearlized fans whipped overhead as I stared outside the 13th floor of the condominium holding back my tears. I felt like I had just gone through Roopa’s final weeks in a matter of hours.

Unable to speak to Shubi I stood from the dark brown leather chair and walked to the sliding glass windows to look out across smoggy Mumbai. Eight sets of wind chimes dangled melodically in the warm breeze from the balcony. Salty tears streamed down my cheek as the realization that I would not see Roopa again sunk in.

For whatever reason, I was only to know Roopa for a very short time. Her impact on my life is still unfolding and her daughters now consciously contemplate carrying out her legacy. Roopa lives on in them.

Before we returned to our hotel, Bharat, Roopa’s husband came to the condo for a brief visit. Traditionally performed by the eldest son in the family, his head was shaved and he was wearing a white flowing kurta and pants. He was sullen and moved slowly toward the couch. When I asked how he was feeling, he replied, “O.K.” and completed the sentence with his right hand as he tipped it from side to side palm facing downward.

Toward the end of my reunion with the Guptas, Shubi explained that on the 10th or the 16th day following the transition of a family member, close members of the family meet in the main household for a puja to pave the way to “heaven” for the lost family member. The next day would be the 16th day and a puja for Roopa was planned. Shubi was quick to extend the invitation to all three of us.

The Puja

The following morning, just moments after opening my eyes, my Mom said she was not going to attend the puja. She too had felt Roopa’s palpable presence and was drained from hearing Roopa’s struggle the previous day. Although I was not sure I was ready for the puja, I knew there really wasn’t a choice, not because the Guptas required my attendance, but because it was for Roopa.

Marc was eager to attend, intrigued by the ceremony and also for Roopa, as he explained, she had touched his life too. He purchased a white kurta for the puja and Shubi let me borrow one of her Dad’s kurtas for the function. Dressed in white from neck to ankles we removed our shoes outside of the Gupta family home where each of the three stories was occupied by one of the Gupta families (uncles, aunts and cousins).

Inside the puja had begun. A shirtless Bharat sat in the middle of the floor with a non-descript tweed string wrapped from one shoulder to the opposite side of his waist. Incense smoke rose in the air from two sticks lit before another man sitting in all white with a thin and short pony tail held by a rubber band against the back of his otherwise shortly cropped graying hair. This was the priest who was leading Bharat through each stage to prepare the spirits (my words) for Roopa’s arrival. Before Bharat lay seven stainless steel plates with rice, oranges, banana leaves and Indian sweets, offerings to the Gods (which were eventually collected into one bucket and dispensed with, presumably to some nearby cows). Bharat carefully repeated after the priest as instructed (in Hindi).

Unsure what to expect I watched each step as if I would have to perform it myself later. While I didn’t want to be obvious in this intimate ceremony, I also wanted to learn more about the puja. After about 15 minutes of intense focus, a man whose face I could not see moved in close to Bharat. Unable to use his hands, sticky with ceremonial rice, the man held a cell phone to Bharat’s ear. Bharat spoke unhurriedly and even cracked a smile. I thought it was unusual to take a call in the middle of what I thought would be a sacred time. However, as I would witness, people casually came in and out of the room for the hour and a half communiqué with the gods. Later I would learn that in all the preparations, like most families, the Guptas had had a miscommunication and failed to invite Simran’s new in-laws to be. Midway through the ceremony, Bharat called to extend an invite. Without Roopa, the family was missing its leader.

Rather unceremoniously the priest collected his belongings and everyone changed out of their “puja clothes” and into casual wear, except for Marc and I as we were unclear on the post puja protocol. After the priest collected his fee in rupees and gifts from the Guptas, the family again provided a scrumptious feast, and being the consummate hosts, invited Marc and I to dig in first at the homestyle buffet. Once again, I was reminded of Roopa’s words, “In India, guest is God.” And the Gupta family consistently demonstrated their firm beliefs in those words.

Post Puja Roundtable

Back at the Gupta condo with Shubi and Simran, it was an opportunity to visit with Simran for the first time. The older of the two daughters, Simran was tasked with a lot of responsibility for the Gupta family business and had a lot on her mind with the transition of her mother and the excitement of spending time with her fiancé.

Sitting around one of the glass coffee tables, Simran shared her perspective on her mother’s final days and her own plans moving forward. She was glowing with excitement about her pending marriage and spoke with a smile when referring to Roopa.

“She planned everything. She made sure every little detail was complete. She took us clothes shopping, picked the location, the flowers, everything. She left nothing undone. The whole wedding is planned. She made sure of that.” Simran spoke with a twinkle in her eye knowing that while her Mom would not be physically at the wedding, she would be there in spirit.

Over the next few hours Simran shared moments that stood out in their minds on Roopa’s final days. Simran approached her Mom for advice on a matter in Roopa’s last two weeks as she lay ailing in the hospital. Uncharacteristically, Roopa did not offer advice, but instead replied, “I am detached, you must solve the problem yourself.” Admittedly Simran was initially taken back, but soon realized that her Mom was preparing her for life after her Mom’s transition.

Both daughters believed that their Mom hung on for 11 extra days before leaving her body. While the doctors could not medically explain Roopa’s continued survival, those that knew Roopa suspected there was a reason. And her daughters felt it at the deepest level. Roopa was preparing everyone else for her departure. Only after her transition did a select few reveal to the family that Roopa had explained she would not be in her body for the wedding. Kidneys, liver, lungs, the majority of her body’s main organs were completely failing, except for one, her heart. And it was her heart and spirit which permitted her to exit when those closest to her were ready.

Simran continued sharing, “In her hospital bed she (Roopa) explained that she was not coming back.” When Simran asked her Mom to check in on them from time to time, Roopa replied, “I have a lot of work to do, I’ll see what I can do.” That was Roopa. With strong conviction, her soul knew that it was not returning to live another lifetime. She made no promises to her daughters as her higher spiritual calling meant that she would be in the service of all. Fortunately for Simran and Shubi, Roopa had prepared them to be self reliant and independent with a strong sense of spirituality.

During our visit there were many more anecdotes and remembrances that brought smiles to our faces. We agreed that the puja wasn’t really for Roopa as she was not particularly Hindu as much as she was of the spiritual world at large, something for which others sometimes held her in contempt and envied her for simultaneously. She was real and widely accepting. And now, free of the body, she was having the most fun of all, following her true bliss, selflessly helping others without judgment and with that great big beautiful smile from her soul.