A Eulogy for Papa

“Bharatendra Bansal, a legacy,” reads a headline for one of Papa’s obituaries. Others call him an inspiration, a true humanitarian, a role model, an enlightened soul.

I just want to sit with him, cross legged on my small bed, and cross-question him on the concept of atman. I want to be back in that moment in High School in San Jose.

“What do you mean, Papa, that all things are an illusion? Do you really believe that?”

He does and he doesn’t. He pauses to think. I can tell he is enjoying the moment. Mummy calls us for dinner. We keep talking.

But is that how it really happened? I don’t know if my head has been doing creative writing. The talks and walks with Papa swirl through my head. On a long walk through the outskirts of Bhiwani, I find a loofah on the side of the road, fallen from the tree above. You can scrub your feet with it, he tells me. Judy, our dog, attacks a hen on the way home, and Papa has to grab her and apologize profusely to the devastated owner. She is angry and refuses to forgive him.

I don’t know how to organize the memories in my head. They are too chaotic, and misshapen. There are too many. He eats too much salt. He doesn’t listen to Mummy. The newspapers celebrate his great work — and never mention — that his decision to move forced Mummy to leave her kids on a different continent and to…