Balance of Fragile Things by Olivia Chadha

Author:Olivia Chadha [Chadha, Olivia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Cultural Heritage, Literary, literature, New York, Nature, novel, Multicultural, eco-fiction, India, eco-literature, Latvia, environmental, butterflies, family drama, Sikh
ISBN: 9781618220097
Publisher: Ashland Creek Press
Published: 2012-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Papaji

Papaji received his package amid a thunderstorm. The mail carrier, covered in a plastic rain tarp that matched her dark-blue uniform, ducked into their cul-de-sac a half hour later than usual and gloomily placed a large pile of mail in the box. When Papaji saw the package the size of a check box, wrapped in several layers of brown paper and twine, an orb of stress in the guise of acid dissipated in his gut. He opened the box, called to his family, and lifted the stack of money from the wrappings like a treasure.

The proud grandfather smacked his son on the back and smiled. “You have a good doctor for me? One you would trust with your father’s limb?”

“Yes, Papaji, we have a good medical group,” Paul answered.

Papaji listened nervously from the doorway while Paul arranged his appointment. He heard his son offer Dr. Bhalla, the podiatrist, a discount on his gas for the entire year if it got him an appointment sooner. Paul handed the Kwicki Fill receipt to Papaji that read: Dr. Bhalla’s gasoline discount, 20% off, one entire year. The doctor was Indian, probably Hindu, but the same subcontinent nonetheless. Papaji couldn’t ask for more.

When they arrived at Dr. Bhalla’s office, during a respite from the rain, the parking lot was flooded, so Paul dropped Papaji off near the entrance to the medical arts building. He waited for his son under the overhang and thought about how he still hadn’t had the chance to wander around town or look for monkeys in the forest.

Papaji’s romantic impression of the rain was dying, and a severe dislike for the wet stuff had begun to sprout. He was, however, enjoying spending time with his son at the station. To make amends for nature’s cruel deluge, Paul had set up a sturdy chair and side table outside the convenience store as Papaji’s lookout. He spent a great deal of time there in his white kurta pajama, with his red turban and long white beard, peering curiously at passersby and examining the construction site on Main Street. He knew his posture was powerful; knees spread, he held his cane between them among the layers of white cotton fabric. People slowed their walking or driving to stare back at him, and he’d smile and wave, sometimes with his cane in his hand, sometimes just with his large outstretched palm.

Though the rains forced the construction workers to stop digging, some workers came during those brief hours of hazy sun to drain the water from the hole or check on their abandoned equipment. Papaji befriended the men who were dressed in their orange vests and hard hats. He’d bring them sodas from the station.

Draining, achchhá? he’d say.

The men would nod and then drop a hose into the hole.

What’s going on down there that’s so special? He’d practiced this question many times before asking it. But he’d grown used to the answer.

Dunno, just following orders. They tell us to dig, and we dig. ’S not my job to know why.

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