Alexander and I heard about Navarati the day we arrived in Ahmedabad. While touring the NID campus our guide said we should look forward to the October celebrations. “There are many festivals in Gujarat,” she said, “But I think you will enjoy Navarati the most.”
Navarati is a nine-day celebration that honors the Mother Goddess and her different forms each night. Known as the world’s longest dance festival, it is celebrated in every village, town, and city across the state of Gujarat. People of all ages congregate in the night to dance Garba, a folk dance that involves circular actions and repeating steps.
In October we witnessed the city prepare for the festivities. At dusk Law Garden’s sidewalks transformed into a glittering night market selling silver jewelry and chaniya cholis- the traditional, mirror studded Gujarati dresses worn for Navarati. Groups of young men practiced complicated dance steps on the side of the road. Local residents decorated their homes with metallic streamers and strings of lights. The lawn in the center of our apartment complex was converted into a flashing atrium complete with a shrine and garlands of marigolds.
Determined to participate as best we could, Alexander and I prepared in advance. Several NID students and Jay’s girlfriend helped us learn the basic twelve steps of Garba, which included twirls, claps and synchronized steps. Alexander purchased a khuta and a colorful duppatta. We even got our hands on some traditional pointed flats made from tooled leather.
Despite our appropriate attire and skilled moves, we were not ready for the chaos that ensued. On the first night of Navarati fifteen boys from our apartment complex knocked on our door. “What is your name?” one asked Alexander. “Please- come dance with us,” another commanded. Soon we were in the crowded courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of people. Dozens of men approached Alexander, shaking his hand and asking questions. “What country? Where you from?” Two children filled our hands with an assortment of mints and sticky hard candy.
Then two gigantic speakers started to blast the first song of the night. The bass reverberated through the entire complex as the concrete driveway transformed into a pulsing dance floor. People quickly formed a circle and started to move in rhythm to the music. Round and round we went, much to the delight of onlookers. First came the sweat, rushing down our faces and soaking our cotton outfits. Next came the ache in our lungs, as the crowd insisted we continue without taking a break. After two hours of continuous dancing, blisters started to form on the soles of our feet. Finally we called it a night, but not before saying goodbye to our countless acquaintances and the band of children.
The next night we attended Garba at NID (much to the disappointment of our neighbors). The setting was far more impressive than the homemade celebrations at our apartment. A large circular dancing ground had been cordoned off with colorful bunting on a grassy field in the corner of campus. A tall, red flame-like structure stood in the center, symbolic of the “garbha deep,” the oil lamp set in a perforated earthen pot around which people traditionally dance. A live band played Navarati tunes while a man and a woman sang the accompanying lyrics. Many of the attendants wore traditional garb. Booths selling Gujarati food and water lined the periphery. The entire event was sponsored by Airtel, a popular Indian cell phone company.
Dancing at NID was a completely different experience. The steps were more complicated, but once we memorized them, we flew! The moist grass felt so good under our bare feet. Instead of thinking about the steps, I simply listened to the loud music and let my body move on its own accord. It felt as if I was connected to the other dancers in my line, as if we had turned into a single organism. Every time I twirled I caught a glimpse of Alexander as he pranced behind me. “I felt like a Modern Dancer!” he said at the end of the night.
The ninth and final night of Navarati celebrations at NID was conducted in the dark. Each dancer was given two votive candles to place in either palm. The music started slowly. From far away the scene looked like a sea of floating candles, gently moving in rhythm to the singers’ voices. As the beat quickened, so did the movement of the dancers. They spun in small circles and took large leaps forward, making their way around the circular dance floor. The warm candlelight reflected in the small mirrors stitched onto the women’s tops and skirts. By the end of the song, it was impossible to decipher the fast-moving dancers from the mass of illuminated hands, smiling faces and sparkling outfits.
10.31.2007
The Biggest Kid on the Block
After Alexander made an appearance at the neighbors’ Navarati celebrations, he became extremely popular among the local children. “ALIX!” they yelled up to our window from the street below. Every night a group of eight or nine boys knocked on our door. “Hi Alix! Can you play with us?” they asked in unison. When I answered the door, they made no attempt to mask their disappointment. “Where is Alix? When will he be back?” they inquired. “He is tired,” I would tell them while Alexander hid in the bedroom.
After several days of harassment, Alexander caved. In a desperate attempt to end the constant knocking he consented to a game of cricket. Near noon, when the hot sun was at its peak, he put on his small tennis cap and set out for the concrete “playing field.” Hours later he returned to our flat, sweaty and dazed. “I think I played well,” he said, choking down our filtered water. It took no more than fifteen minutes before we heard a loud knock from the front room. As I expected, a small boy was waiting for me when I opened the door. “Can Alexander come play?” he asked.
The boys were not satisfied with just one game. They continue to visit us daily in the hope that their new American friend will join them for another afternoon of play. Alexander is running out of excuses.
After several days of harassment, Alexander caved. In a desperate attempt to end the constant knocking he consented to a game of cricket. Near noon, when the hot sun was at its peak, he put on his small tennis cap and set out for the concrete “playing field.” Hours later he returned to our flat, sweaty and dazed. “I think I played well,” he said, choking down our filtered water. It took no more than fifteen minutes before we heard a loud knock from the front room. As I expected, a small boy was waiting for me when I opened the door. “Can Alexander come play?” he asked.
The boys were not satisfied with just one game. They continue to visit us daily in the hope that their new American friend will join them for another afternoon of play. Alexander is running out of excuses.
Alexander's Sick Day
Contrary to expectations, I have remained incredibly healthy since landing in India. I have survived some risky roadside food and questionable glasses of water. Unfortunately, Alexander has not been so lucky.
I blame the air in NID’s Knowledge Management Center (yes, that is a fancy word for library), which is recycled and overly air-conditioned. After several long days researching Rajasthani turbans in the KMC, Alexander complained that he felt dizzy. Hours later his fever spiked and he suffered a severe bout of indigestion. By one a.m. he was clutching our decrepit toilet and crying out that he wanted to go home. “I am done! It’s over!” I stroked his head and made him drink mineral water with a dash of sugar and lime.
It took forty-eight hours for the worst to subside. His teeth chattered with chill while his brow sweated. He was unable to sleep or eat, and could not keep the antibiotics down. It was excruciating to watch, in part because I was convinced that I would be next!
Just when I began to seriously worry, his health improved. Within a day the viral infection mysteriously transformed into a serious cold, complete with congestion and a deep cough. I am happy to say I remain in the pink.
I blame the air in NID’s Knowledge Management Center (yes, that is a fancy word for library), which is recycled and overly air-conditioned. After several long days researching Rajasthani turbans in the KMC, Alexander complained that he felt dizzy. Hours later his fever spiked and he suffered a severe bout of indigestion. By one a.m. he was clutching our decrepit toilet and crying out that he wanted to go home. “I am done! It’s over!” I stroked his head and made him drink mineral water with a dash of sugar and lime.
It took forty-eight hours for the worst to subside. His teeth chattered with chill while his brow sweated. He was unable to sleep or eat, and could not keep the antibiotics down. It was excruciating to watch, in part because I was convinced that I would be next!
Just when I began to seriously worry, his health improved. Within a day the viral infection mysteriously transformed into a serious cold, complete with congestion and a deep cough. I am happy to say I remain in the pink.
10.12.2007
Adjusting
Today I saw a cow eating a discarded newspaper. It struck me like most things have in recent weeks: unexpected, unsettling and seemingly absurd.
Most agree that the human mind has an inherent tendency to impose order upon the chaos of its environment by classifying its contents. Without classification, knowledge of the world and the ability to live in it would be impossible. Culture is the method of classification that imposes a collectively shared cognitive order upon a world that, objectively, is totally incomprehensible.
What happens when one must adjust to a foreign culture? What happens to one’s now useless systems of meaning once used to decode her surroundings? How can one collapse her order of the world into another foreign system of classification? And what is lost in this translation?
It is impossible for me to assimilate the world I see here with the world as I know it. As I adjust to life in India, I abandon my points of reference along with an urge to classify all that I encounter. I try to process information without judgment. All that is simply is. Begging amputees, constrictive gender roles, indigent children are no longer individual moral crises. They are simply connected parts of the larger cultural system.
There is a boy who lives in the open-air courtyard beneath our flat. I estimate him to be about ten years old. It is hard to tell, however, because he is confined to a metal cot. He remains prostrate through the hottest hours of the day, feebly swatting at flies. Sometimes he pulls a thin blanket over his entire frame, giving the impression that he has disappeared.
I always look for the boy on my ascent and descent from the apartment. Yesterday I was surprised to see the cot empty, the blankets thrown aside. I glanced around for a clue to his whereabouts. Several yards away I caught sight of his emaciated frame, silhouetted by the brilliant morning light. He limped slowly, with rigid, unbending limbs like those of a scarecrow.
My first impulse is to approach his bedside, to bring him cold water or maybe a snack. I know enough Gujarati to ask him his name. “Aap kaa shubh naan kyaa hai?” I could ask. “Maru naam Amelia che.” If I wanted to engage in further conversation, I could easily ask one of my Gujarati friends to translate.
But the truth is that far more lies between this boy and me than a barrier of language. Although we live less than thirty feet apart, we occupy different worlds. I cannot begin to imagine what he is thinking during those long, lonely, humid afternoons.
Last week we visited Ahmedabad’s train station for the first time. When Jay picked us up for a late dinner, he insisted we go to the only twenty-four hour restaurant in city. We drove through the desolate roads while the radio blared Indian pop music. The streets looked eerily beautiful, like the abandoned set of a movie. Colorful wrappers littered the ground and twinkling canopies of lights were suspended overhead. With the warm breeze blowing in through our car window, it was almost possible to forget the sea of bodies that had inhabited the same spaces hours earlier. It was as if we were momentarily privy to a post-apocalyptic vision.
But the streets were far from deserted. Thousands of motionless forms lined our route. Tucked beneath blankets and lying in rows. Families huddled together in an indecipherable mass of arms and legs. As we approached the station, the density of sleeping people increased.
After parking the car, we walked to the nearby platform. Jay noticed my eyes fixating on a sleeping teenager lying in the middle of our path, her face resting directly on the filthy pavement. “It is OK,” he said, waving his hand as if to fan away the stench of the nearby bathrooms. “This is their bed. This is the real India.”
Most agree that the human mind has an inherent tendency to impose order upon the chaos of its environment by classifying its contents. Without classification, knowledge of the world and the ability to live in it would be impossible. Culture is the method of classification that imposes a collectively shared cognitive order upon a world that, objectively, is totally incomprehensible.
What happens when one must adjust to a foreign culture? What happens to one’s now useless systems of meaning once used to decode her surroundings? How can one collapse her order of the world into another foreign system of classification? And what is lost in this translation?
It is impossible for me to assimilate the world I see here with the world as I know it. As I adjust to life in India, I abandon my points of reference along with an urge to classify all that I encounter. I try to process information without judgment. All that is simply is. Begging amputees, constrictive gender roles, indigent children are no longer individual moral crises. They are simply connected parts of the larger cultural system.
There is a boy who lives in the open-air courtyard beneath our flat. I estimate him to be about ten years old. It is hard to tell, however, because he is confined to a metal cot. He remains prostrate through the hottest hours of the day, feebly swatting at flies. Sometimes he pulls a thin blanket over his entire frame, giving the impression that he has disappeared.
I always look for the boy on my ascent and descent from the apartment. Yesterday I was surprised to see the cot empty, the blankets thrown aside. I glanced around for a clue to his whereabouts. Several yards away I caught sight of his emaciated frame, silhouetted by the brilliant morning light. He limped slowly, with rigid, unbending limbs like those of a scarecrow.
My first impulse is to approach his bedside, to bring him cold water or maybe a snack. I know enough Gujarati to ask him his name. “Aap kaa shubh naan kyaa hai?” I could ask. “Maru naam Amelia che.” If I wanted to engage in further conversation, I could easily ask one of my Gujarati friends to translate.
But the truth is that far more lies between this boy and me than a barrier of language. Although we live less than thirty feet apart, we occupy different worlds. I cannot begin to imagine what he is thinking during those long, lonely, humid afternoons.
Last week we visited Ahmedabad’s train station for the first time. When Jay picked us up for a late dinner, he insisted we go to the only twenty-four hour restaurant in city. We drove through the desolate roads while the radio blared Indian pop music. The streets looked eerily beautiful, like the abandoned set of a movie. Colorful wrappers littered the ground and twinkling canopies of lights were suspended overhead. With the warm breeze blowing in through our car window, it was almost possible to forget the sea of bodies that had inhabited the same spaces hours earlier. It was as if we were momentarily privy to a post-apocalyptic vision.
But the streets were far from deserted. Thousands of motionless forms lined our route. Tucked beneath blankets and lying in rows. Families huddled together in an indecipherable mass of arms and legs. As we approached the station, the density of sleeping people increased.
After parking the car, we walked to the nearby platform. Jay noticed my eyes fixating on a sleeping teenager lying in the middle of our path, her face resting directly on the filthy pavement. “It is OK,” he said, waving his hand as if to fan away the stench of the nearby bathrooms. “This is their bed. This is the real India.”
Gandhiji!
October second marked the anniversary of Gandhi’s birthday. It also marked the first day that Alexander and I picked up our camera and started filming. Jay came to get us at 5:30am to attend the rally that his political party was supporting. Like the thousands of parade participants we would soon film, he wore white khadi.
Khadi is handspun, hand-woven cloth made from threads of cotton or silk. In the 1920s, Gandhi started promoting the spinning of khadi as a way to boycott the British and foreign made fabrics that had flooded the market. Khadi thus became a symbol for India’s struggle for independence and self-sufficiency.
After parking the car, Jay ran to join his political party. Hundreds of young men were waiting, green and red National Congress Party scarves around their necks. Soon after they were joined by a group of older men and senior politicians. One of Jay’s unofficial assistants helped direct Alexander and I to the action as the crowd began to surge. The men chanted as the walked “Gandhiji! Gandhiji! Gandhiji! NCP (National Congress Party)! NCP! NCP!”
In the early morning hours a transportable float festooned with garlands of flowers had been placed in one of the city’s busiest intersections. Now the men walked towards the red contraption and ascended the steps to a raised platform. They blessed a figure of Gandhi at the top. Later, the ruling party (BJP) would ascend the same steps and wash the figure in milk and water. The members of the BJP were the only people allowed to have this honor; anyone who attempted to do the same would be arrested.
Alexander filmed while I steadied his body, pointed to interesting shots, and navigated us both through the steady stream of traffic. Buses and rickshaws barreled down the streets in both directions as we nervously perched ourselves on the median. After Jay and his congregation had descended, we followed them to watch a parade. A constant stream of men dressed in white extended as far as the eye could see in two directions. Many carried large Indian flags that rippled in the morning breeze. Towards the end of the parade we saw a thin Gandhi look-a-like dressed up for the part. Using the support of a wooden stick, he walked with large strides, raising his hand as if to politely refuse the cheers that greeted him. It was a beautiful scene, both in person and on camera.
Throughout the day people responded well to the camera. Everyone we interviewed was excited to have his opinion heard. When Jay introduced us to a large group of friends, they whipped out camera phones to record our voices and take our picture. Many insisted we show clips from our footage. It felt like a more equal exchange than it has in the past.
Khadi is handspun, hand-woven cloth made from threads of cotton or silk. In the 1920s, Gandhi started promoting the spinning of khadi as a way to boycott the British and foreign made fabrics that had flooded the market. Khadi thus became a symbol for India’s struggle for independence and self-sufficiency.
After parking the car, Jay ran to join his political party. Hundreds of young men were waiting, green and red National Congress Party scarves around their necks. Soon after they were joined by a group of older men and senior politicians. One of Jay’s unofficial assistants helped direct Alexander and I to the action as the crowd began to surge. The men chanted as the walked “Gandhiji! Gandhiji! Gandhiji! NCP (National Congress Party)! NCP! NCP!”
In the early morning hours a transportable float festooned with garlands of flowers had been placed in one of the city’s busiest intersections. Now the men walked towards the red contraption and ascended the steps to a raised platform. They blessed a figure of Gandhi at the top. Later, the ruling party (BJP) would ascend the same steps and wash the figure in milk and water. The members of the BJP were the only people allowed to have this honor; anyone who attempted to do the same would be arrested.
Alexander filmed while I steadied his body, pointed to interesting shots, and navigated us both through the steady stream of traffic. Buses and rickshaws barreled down the streets in both directions as we nervously perched ourselves on the median. After Jay and his congregation had descended, we followed them to watch a parade. A constant stream of men dressed in white extended as far as the eye could see in two directions. Many carried large Indian flags that rippled in the morning breeze. Towards the end of the parade we saw a thin Gandhi look-a-like dressed up for the part. Using the support of a wooden stick, he walked with large strides, raising his hand as if to politely refuse the cheers that greeted him. It was a beautiful scene, both in person and on camera.
Throughout the day people responded well to the camera. Everyone we interviewed was excited to have his opinion heard. When Jay introduced us to a large group of friends, they whipped out camera phones to record our voices and take our picture. Many insisted we show clips from our footage. It felt like a more equal exchange than it has in the past.
All Noisy on the Creative Front
Alexander and I live in a two-bedroom flat. One room has our bed, a clothesline, and an assortment of books. The other has been designated a sacred creative space. We have dubbed it the “sancta sanctorum.”
The sancta sanctorum is virtually empty. Thick auburn curtains adorn the windows and a hand woven purple carpet decorates the floor. We keep the door closed to prevent dust from entering.
The space is incredibly useful in our creative pursuits. After a month of research, Alexander has narrowed his project to focus on three methods of textile production. He will concentrate on one handmade craft that is disappearing (mashru or patola weaving), one craft that has modernized in order to survive changes in the market (mata ni pachedi) and one fully mechanized product. It is his hope that by looking at the individuals involved in production he will be able to address larger trends in Indian textile industries and explore aspects of global trade. The project will culminate in a three-part film, each examining one craft, and will be accompanied by a booklet that will include historical background and interviews.
In addition, Alexander and I have started a project examining Rajasthani turban design. We are both designing books. One concentrates on a single turban, looking at the details of its 20-meter design. The other considers the range of turban designs coming from Rajasthan, comparing colors, patterns and tie-and-dye methods.
Meanwhile I am continuing to grapple with the analytical importance of hope, which was central to the thesis I completed last spring. Eager to examine the dynamics of optimistic thinking in a completely new social context, my interest is in the ways youth envision their futures in India. I focus on the ideas that inform positive outlooks and consider how a shared sense of hopefulness influences attitudes towards and participation in emerging political and social projects. Depending on how much time and luck I have, I will focus on three individual youth. One will be Jay.
In our free time Alexander is teaching me design programs, we are taking pictures of the old city and breaking into a new box of watercolors. It is such so nice to be able to indulge in creative endeavors after being so constricted by our academic responsibilities in college.
The sancta sanctorum is virtually empty. Thick auburn curtains adorn the windows and a hand woven purple carpet decorates the floor. We keep the door closed to prevent dust from entering.
The space is incredibly useful in our creative pursuits. After a month of research, Alexander has narrowed his project to focus on three methods of textile production. He will concentrate on one handmade craft that is disappearing (mashru or patola weaving), one craft that has modernized in order to survive changes in the market (mata ni pachedi) and one fully mechanized product. It is his hope that by looking at the individuals involved in production he will be able to address larger trends in Indian textile industries and explore aspects of global trade. The project will culminate in a three-part film, each examining one craft, and will be accompanied by a booklet that will include historical background and interviews.
In addition, Alexander and I have started a project examining Rajasthani turban design. We are both designing books. One concentrates on a single turban, looking at the details of its 20-meter design. The other considers the range of turban designs coming from Rajasthan, comparing colors, patterns and tie-and-dye methods.
Meanwhile I am continuing to grapple with the analytical importance of hope, which was central to the thesis I completed last spring. Eager to examine the dynamics of optimistic thinking in a completely new social context, my interest is in the ways youth envision their futures in India. I focus on the ideas that inform positive outlooks and consider how a shared sense of hopefulness influences attitudes towards and participation in emerging political and social projects. Depending on how much time and luck I have, I will focus on three individual youth. One will be Jay.
In our free time Alexander is teaching me design programs, we are taking pictures of the old city and breaking into a new box of watercolors. It is such so nice to be able to indulge in creative endeavors after being so constricted by our academic responsibilities in college.
Roaming in the Night
Although we have made many friends since our arrival, Jay remains a fixture in our social life. He knows Ahmedabad far better than any NID students, most of who hail from other parts of India. His job in politics and penchant for socializing bring us into contact with a varied group of people. Furthermore, he is proud of his cultural heritage and committed to abiding by the traditions he has been taught. The three of us spend much of our time together explaining how we see the world, how we were brought up and the many misconceptions about our cultures.
One of Jay’s favorite things to do is to “roam in the night.” Usually this consists of a stop at the juice stand followed by an excursion into the Old City. The empty roads are lit with large streetlights that illuminate dozens of vendors selling grains, sweets, hot drinks and mouth fresheners. We often take tea on a dusty stoop and watch the people go by. We watch men make jalebi, a process that consists of pouring a thin batter into boiling oil and then drenching the translucent spirals into a vat of sweet syrup. Sometimes Jay teaches us phrases in Gujarati, urging us to engage in conversation with the friendly vendors.
I feel safe with Alexander and Jay, and also extremely lucky to witness Indian nightlife as a woman. Recently I spoke with two female foreign exchange students who told me they were warned about going into the Old City past 9am, even when they were with female friends from Ahmedabad. I think it helps that I have both a “partner” and a male local “guide.” I have yet to be bothered.
One of Jay’s favorite things to do is to “roam in the night.” Usually this consists of a stop at the juice stand followed by an excursion into the Old City. The empty roads are lit with large streetlights that illuminate dozens of vendors selling grains, sweets, hot drinks and mouth fresheners. We often take tea on a dusty stoop and watch the people go by. We watch men make jalebi, a process that consists of pouring a thin batter into boiling oil and then drenching the translucent spirals into a vat of sweet syrup. Sometimes Jay teaches us phrases in Gujarati, urging us to engage in conversation with the friendly vendors.
I feel safe with Alexander and Jay, and also extremely lucky to witness Indian nightlife as a woman. Recently I spoke with two female foreign exchange students who told me they were warned about going into the Old City past 9am, even when they were with female friends from Ahmedabad. I think it helps that I have both a “partner” and a male local “guide.” I have yet to be bothered.
Cricket Mania
Alexander and I are still shaking with fear after India won an important cricket match against Pakistan. Large mobs gathered in the streets, cheering for their country. Fireworks exploded in allies and outside stores. On my way back from a local grocer, I noticed a boy covering his ears with both hands. Alexander yanked me back as a large explosive erupted in a flurry of silver sparks and smoke. I still cannot hear properly out of my left ear.
NID students gathered in the canteen to watch the game. The cafeteria was transformed into a dark cinema. Jay called to say we should come to CG Road- one of the main roads in Ahmedabad. “You must come now if you want to be on the news for all of India,” he said, the sounds of the crowd in the background. We politely declined, taking refuge within the walls of NID as the explosions continued.
Later we would learn that Jay had stolen forty sets of keys from cars stranded in nearby traffic. He climbed atop a parked bus and demanded the entire crowd chant “We love India! We love India! We love India!” before returning the keys. We saw photographs of the event in the newspaper the following day. "It's good publicity for my [political] party,” Jay explained.
NID students gathered in the canteen to watch the game. The cafeteria was transformed into a dark cinema. Jay called to say we should come to CG Road- one of the main roads in Ahmedabad. “You must come now if you want to be on the news for all of India,” he said, the sounds of the crowd in the background. We politely declined, taking refuge within the walls of NID as the explosions continued.
Later we would learn that Jay had stolen forty sets of keys from cars stranded in nearby traffic. He climbed atop a parked bus and demanded the entire crowd chant “We love India! We love India! We love India!” before returning the keys. We saw photographs of the event in the newspaper the following day. "It's good publicity for my [political] party,” Jay explained.
10.01.2007
Mourning Nana
My beloved grandmother died unexpectedly several days ago. I am still grappling with the tragic news. Dealing with such a significant loss is strange in a foreign place. At first I felt distanced from the trauma, as if the expanse that separates me from home translated into emotional distance. I thought that I would be able to mourn without experiencing sensual vertigo; that what I learned about attachment and death in the remote mountains of Japan would now be put to good use.
But the grief grows with each day. The realization that I will never hug her again produces a lump in my throat that makes it hard to swallow. When I shut my eyes I am flooded by memories: the smell of her perfume, the sound of her laugh, her glittering collection of paperweights. I remember Thanksgiving dinners, never-ending games of crazy eights, and the books she used to read aloud. Nana shared stories about growing up in Oakland, attending Pomona, marrying a WWII vet, raising two darling children, traveling the world and the many events that punctuated her ever-busy social life. It breaks my heart to think she will be no more and I am not quite ready to say good-bye.
But the grief grows with each day. The realization that I will never hug her again produces a lump in my throat that makes it hard to swallow. When I shut my eyes I am flooded by memories: the smell of her perfume, the sound of her laugh, her glittering collection of paperweights. I remember Thanksgiving dinners, never-ending games of crazy eights, and the books she used to read aloud. Nana shared stories about growing up in Oakland, attending Pomona, marrying a WWII vet, raising two darling children, traveling the world and the many events that punctuated her ever-busy social life. It breaks my heart to think she will be no more and I am not quite ready to say good-bye.
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