Our Kind

I’ve been known to wear a sari.


We actually had an India wedding. It was in Vienna, where my parents live. We flew a priest out. A long blessing. Alan was an angel. He liked the exoticism. The priest looked like something straight from the comics. You know – those Indian comics.

Amar Chitra Katha. Sure, I know them.

Which was your favourite? My dad used to buy us the spiritually elevating ones. Kinda dull. The one about Sankara. And about that sage who went about in the nude. We had the bumper collection about Vishnu’s avatars, too. The fish, the lion man, Rama and Krishna – the lot.


Can you speak Hindi?

No.

Tamil?

No.

Not can I. Well, malayalam. We always spoke English at home. My parents. Even my grandparents. That’s what they decided.


I studied a bit of Sanskrit. I went to an evening class. It was hard. The way you were supposed to combine the words. Sandhi, right? We read the Upanishads. I can’t remember which ones. I can’t remember anything.


My family are Keralan. Keralan Christians. But I know all the Hindu stories.


Do you go back, ever?

We went when my dad died. That was a while ago. Not since then.


We’re not made for this weather, are we?

This wind. This wind is fierce.

It’s okay if you’re dressed right.

Are you saying I’m not dressed right?

My dad’s never got used to the cold. He’s always cold, in the middle of summer. Our kind’s made for the heat, philosopher.