Balance of Fragile Things (12 page)

U
S
Airways Flight 785 from La Guardia to Cobalt, New York, 5 p.m.: Delayed.

Paul wrapped his large hand around Maija's shoulder and squeezed. “I think that's his plane landing now.”

They had prepared as best they could. That's all Paul could think to himself as they stood—a starched, creased, gelled, and straightened brood—waiting in their Sunday best for the last male elder of Paul's family to arrive at Cobalt's airport. If this moment were a photograph, as it should have been, the edges would curl in a rococo frame that would rest atop a great aunt's bureau covered in dust. If captured, this image would serve as evidence to future generations who might poke their fingers toward Great Aunt So-and-So's photo and exclaim, “Aren't those the American Singhs picking up their last patriarch from the Cobalt airport?” It was a scene like many others in any small airport. Sardar Harbans Singh was to arrive any minute now, and the entire Singh family was there with their clean-smelling clothes, smiles, and uncomfortable sighs.

Paul watched the commuter plane soar over the white-pine forest and coast along the slick black runway. The turboprop emerged from the mist like Gandaberunda, the mythological two-headed bird, ready to battle Shiva. History and the here and now crashed deep beneath Paul's sternum; the collision caused acid reflux to coat the back of his esophagus. He focused his eyes on the busy carpet instead; he watched it crawl like burrowing worms and wished he could dive under it and disappear altogether. It wasn't Papaji he feared seeing, though he did not want to see him now or ever. It was the shade of himself he'd abandoned in the village and all the ghosts that chased him, which he knew were hitchhikers in his father's luggage.

“It'll be okay,” Maija whispered, only for his ears.

Passengers filed like ants down the stairs along the tarmac to Gate Two and toward the security area. They were a weary yet organized swarm. Five, ten, twelve people passed with their wheeled bags and disheveled hair. Next came an elderly lady with a walker, shuffling slowly along the carpet. Paul searched with a poised smile and lungs inflated, anticipating a joyful release. Minutes expanded like an already over-f helium balloon, compounded by the pressure of high altitude. Two security guards and one policeman rushed past them toward the gate. Paul followed, his eyes squinting with inquiry.

A husky TSA lady stopped Paul from entering the gate. “You can't go in without a ticket.”

“But I'm looking for a passenger.”

The TSA lady pointed to a woman at the ticket counter. The woman's nametag read
Shirley
. Shirley wore more makeup than you can find at a Walmart, Paul thought.

“Can I help you?” The added syllables in her accent were most certainly Texan. Paul liked Texans; they reminded him of Punjabis.

“Yes, I'm looking for my father. He was on that flight.”

“Name?”

“Singh.”

Shirley looked at Paul's turban, then the gate, then tapped the tips of her acrylic nails on her keyboard.

“Mr. Harbans Singh?”

“Yes, that's my father. Where is he?”

“Sir”—she moved closer and spoke quietly—“there was a problem. He's going to be detained until—”

“What? Detained? What for?”

Shirley tapped her acrylic nails against the counter. “Sir, please calm down. They are bringing him now.”

“I am calm; this
is
me calm, madam. You don't want to see me—upset.” Paul clenched his hands into fists and dug his nails into his palms. Luckily, Papaji and his security entourage turned the corner at that moment and made their way toward Paul.

His father seemed to be a relic of the giant from Paul's memories. The cane he used now pulled his posture to the right. The beard that had been black and, on special occasions, wound up and glued tight against his jawline, was emancipated from the tyranny of beard fixer and flowed silver down his chest.

“Papaji?” Paul moved toward him.

“
Puttar
, they think I'm a jihadi!”

“Sir, keep your voice down,” the officer said between his gritted teeth.

Onlookers whirled around to stare.

“That's my father! Where are you taking him?” Paul jogged alongside them. “Wait!”

The group walked into the airport security office. The police officer closed the door, then turned toward Paul.

“Your father made some peculiar statements on the plane to another passenger. We have to take him in for a background check and questioning.”

“What did he say?” Paul felt his family surround him.

“A lady he was sitting next to asked him if he was an Arab.”

Paul felt his face drop miles.

“He used profanities, then threatened to show her his sword to prove he wasn't.”

“You must be mistaken. He's an old man; he doesn't know what he's saying. Clearly he's senile.”

“We found a large knife in his suitcase. He checked it in India, but still, we're living in crazy times.”

“Knives are ceremonial to our culture, sir; they are not to be used to fight. They are for show.”

“Bad time to say anything aboard a plane.”

“You should talk to that lady who started the whole thing. She's ignorant. He was only trying to prove he was a Sikh, the furthest thing from a jihadi terrorist.”

“Details.” The officer used his tongue to pick out an invisible fragment of food in his incisor.

Paul hated the ignorance he'd experienced since September 11. People assumed the turban he wore was related to the head covering the mullahs wore in the Middle East. He'd read about a few attacks against Sikhs, one of the victims an owner of a liquor store, clubbed by an imbecile who was never caught. Stupidity is more dangerous than intelligence, he thought.

Maija moved toward the policeman. “Listen, if he hasn't done anything wrong, hasn't violated any law, I suggest you release him now before I call my lawyer and best friend, who's a reporter for the
Daily Mirror
. She'd be happy to write a headline in tomorrow's paper and launch a full investigation into this matter.” Maija's eyes flashed steel, an attribute Paul adored about his wife.

Within moments, Papaji was out of the security office and staring, weary-eyed, at his American family. He shook his head and mumbled, “
Mané Sikh han
.” He looked at Paul and smiled, all teeth.

“It's been too long,
puttar
.” He held his hand out to Paul, and Paul took it.

“So who do we have here?” Papaji said in English, with an intimidating tone, and looked from Maija to Isabella to Vic. He shook Maija's hand as if she were made of glass and nodded pleasantly at her.

Isabella walked up to him and said, “Hello, Papaji.”

He seemed taken aback by her directness, but instead of showing surprise, he said, “Hello,
potrí
.”

When his eyes rested on Vic, something in him seemed to change. He went to him and said, “You must be Varunesh Singh. Let me look at you.” Papaji ran his eyes across Vic's form as though he were searching for something. He seemed to be making note of his height and weight. He perused his face and paused, as though the world he'd once known as flat was now round. Papaji bent down closer to look Vic in the eye. “Oh,” was all he said as he gently ran his huge thumbs across Vic's bushy eyebrows, then pointed to his own tufty brows.

“Nice to meet you, my grandson.” His accent was thick across the English words he struggled to find.

The air around Paul seemed to get heavier; he used his pointer finger to loosen his shirt collar. Something in the air stung his eyes, and he wiped them with his handkerchief.

“Papaji, let's get out of here before they change their mind about us. Let's go.” He turned to Vic, tossed him the keys to the Cutlass Supreme and said, “Get the car,
puttar
; bring it round.”

Vic looked shocked. “But I've never driven.”

“Nonsense, go!”

Vic did not hesitate a second time. When he brought the car, Paul saw that Vic's arms were stretched to their limit, gripping the wheel at ten and two as if his life depended on the completion of the task. He drove too close to the curb and slid one tire up onto the sidewalk. Maija had to show him where the parking brake was.

“Good-looking boy,” Papaji whispered to Paul in Punjabi. “Good he follows
Khalsa.
”

Maija asked Papaji to sit in the front as Paul would drive home, but he insisted on the backseat, next to the kids.

As they drove home, Paul looked at his father's reflection in the rearview mirror. Papaji was taking in the scenery, and Paul imagined he was probably looking for monkeys in the trees or for signs of snakes in the tall grasses.

On the Wing

Watching

Posted on October 9

Watching is patience magnified. If you are fortunate enough to see a butterfly's spectacular flight, you have to resist the desire to run after it; if you do, you will look like a fool. Let her come to you; she's coy. The most successful watching occurs when you catch her off-guard, while she's devouring her lunch, a decaying piece of fruit, or slurping flower nectar or a salty puddle of water. Her eyes are poor. Butterflies and moths are beautiful to our dingy world, but imagine what they look like to one another. They see ultraviolet colors, colors beyond the spectrum of our eyes. They are also nearsighted. The flowers stand out to them like flashing landing pads awaiting their arrival. The vegetation absorbs ultraviolet light, making them stand out. Their predators—birds, reptiles—can't see UV light, so this is their secret language. Because of her poor sight, it is easy to get close to her while she consumes her liquid diet. Her utensil of choice: a straw-like proboscis. I heard about a Postman butterfly, which got its name from its fixed flower route. From flower to flower, they drink the same nectar every day of their short lives. What a spectacular creature of habit.

Or, if you are even luckier, you will see a chrysalis freshly opened and the young adult, new to the world, pumping its blood through its wings readying for its first flight. The chrysalis tears open gently, the adult butterfly breaks free of the shell, and it veins expand the little sails. Its damp wings are like the curled lips of a clamshell. You feel honored to see its transformation. Change takes time. She zips her proboscis together like two sides of a straw, if she's lucky to have the ability to eat. Some, like the Atlas moth, are born without mouths. It seems an odd product of nature, an adult emerging after such a process only to lay eggs and die three days later. It is so ephemeral. A watcher bearing witness is graced.

But where are they? The answer is: everywhere. If it's cool, they rest beneath branches, warming their bodies. If it's warm, they are flitting low above grasses, flowers, trees, and puddles. When one catches your eye, it's because you showed patience to nature, and she is offered as a gift. They are the fairies in our world, pixies in the human realm. Their stained-glass windows so brilliant and whimsical we can't help but remember that this is what matters. You hold your breath and forget where you were rushing off to mere moments before. They are the sirens of the world we used to live in, the one we could live in.

If you get the chance to meet a butterfly in the wild when it's consuming a meal, you can look closely at its eyes, two orbs of glass with worlds inside. The light refracting through its opaque wings. Or, the edge of its hind leg fringed with tears and nibbles from battles lost. Look even closer at her almost imperceptible scales, each a different-colored sequin. Or observe how it carries on the wind, higher and higher, coasting on a mini current, then dives like a nervous debutante, shy at her first dance. They are nature in its moving state; it's only when you are quiet that she will reveal herself to you. Or perhaps she is watching you with her false eyespot when she is in prayer. To see her in flight is a gift—to see them in a glass case, drained of life, is like visiting the skeleton of a once-pretty girl.

Sightings

Here is a list of my butterfly sightings by memory, so they might not be accurate, and I do not have the exact dates, only the seasons. This list is far from complete, but a start is a start.

Elfin
: Large black eyes lined in white, smaller than most leaves. Its scales glitter purple and green across its dusty brown wings.

Blue Copper:
Iridescent on forewings: open grassy field. I almost got it confused with a blue, but it is much larger.

Eastern Tailed-Blue
: It was a blue in size (tiny) and had two commas of orange on the edge of its wing and tufty tails the size of raindrops on the edge of its hind wing. It was drinking from a daisy-looking flower in the flats.

Spicebush Swallowtail:
This is the largest butterfly I've seen, spanning the length of my hand relaxed. It has green tones on brown/black wings and bright yellow shades on the edges of the wings. It was drinking from a spicebush.

Little Yellow
: The difference between a sulphur and a Yellow is their antennae. Yellows' antennae are black and white, while sulphurs' are pink.

Common Sootywing:
It was like its name, dark in complexion. The wings were soft black/brown and flecked with white spots. It sat like skippers do, wings spread back, easily mistaken by the untrained eye for a moth.

Unnamed Blue:
I still have yet to identify the invertebrate I found not too long ago, in a ravine in a suburban area. It is a blue, tiny in size, with white circles lined in black near its hind wing. Wings are fringed with white, and there is a deep brownish tone under the violet blue color (the left and right are different colors). To me, it looks like a mutant.

To my present plight, I wonder if anyone has anything further to offer. I still haven't been able to determine an identity for my finding. I wonder if, perhaps, the creature is not a product of nature but a creation of man's doing. A Frankenstein butterfly.

2 COMMENTS

You should get the Peterson's Guide; it's comprehensive. Also, don't forget that the environment could be responsible for affecting the butterfly. I know it sounds wild, but it's possible. Have you looked into environmental causes? —BF Girl NY

Thanks, BF Girl! I will get the book and look into external effects. —Vic