The heat of June brings a reminder of the lessons and gifts that we inherit from our fathers – be they ones of birth who actually helped to raise us, or ones whom we may never have seen or known due to circumstances beyond our control who literally helped to create the life that eventually evolved into the human beings we are. While June reminds me of Summer Solstice and Pride, this time around, it’s all about Father’s Day and the lessons my father passed on to me about travel, the road, and life.
In many ways, the person I am today is the result of the love and spiritual nature of my father. When I was drifting into the post-idyllic stage of mandatory secondary education, I heard a song from an old Donald Fagan album, The Nightfly. The song “Ruby Baby” was actually a cover of the original Drifters version from the 1950s. Every time I hear that song, I am taken back to when my girlfriends and I were dancing in the basement, pretending to be hip to this music we really didn’t know, and my father took center stage with this dance he called “The Madison.”
Years later, I found out that “The Madison” referred to an actual dance, not simply a popular street in Baltimore, Maryland, where I grew up, nor the name of a hotel, or even the name of our fourth president, James Madison. Like so many group line-dances, the catchy simple steps are generation-crossing; it doesn’t matter if you are 10, 50 or 80, you can find yourself matching the steps in good time.
Perhaps this is why during the month of June, a warm summer month in the northern hemisphere, we let loose with our wild energy to capture the union of our souls with the joy of being alive. We capture the love of late spring and early summer through celebrating the essence of fun with friends and family. Our calendars fill with weddings, graduations, birthday celebrations, pool parties, family reunions in the park, and simple evenings making s’mores around the fire pit in the backyard.
I often wonder if the time of June, at the height of the light half of the year, is placed exactly when our bodies need the break from the excess dread and work of winter. In many way the roughly 93 days of this season we call summer is a blissful seventh inning stretch for our souls and spirits. We embrace our youth by playing outside or spending quiet times sipping lemonade on the front porch while chatting with friends or watching a movie on a tablet. We stroll as the dogs walk us as we wave to our neighbors. Everyone has a smile because the weather is too good to mess up our vibe with frowns.
Life is not perfection during the start of this 93 day journey called summer; however, it is a chance to take the spark of energy during the midst of the light half of the year and use it to set fire to our own goals. While my parents imbued me with a love of travel and adventure, it was my father who reminded me that life is always a journey filled with promise. Whether it was late night conversations about the road and life as we rolled through Lovelock, Nevada on our way to the Reno KOA, or reminding me in Paris why I should always honor my mother because no one would have my back more, I treasured the time with my father. He valued freedom, religious practice, and fun with a spirit that soared like an eagle. I miss him much and on road trips, he is my heart as a reminder to enjoy life for what it is worth.
C. Ajana
Road sign: Please drive slow. Life is Precious! [C. Ajana]
My father’s presence fills me in India, on yet another road trip. The two are inextricably linked as my first trip involved leaving a bit of his ashes in the Ganges in a moving ceremony on New Year’s Day when I really missed him to honor his passing the decade before. Although I did not appreciate Delhi or Agra then, this trip feels different.
A sense of otherness permeates the roads, the air, even at six in the morning as we pass by India Gate in New Delhi onto NH44 where large white Buddhist stupa celebrating world peace marks the beautiful gardens of Indraprastha Park. Sunrise filters through traffic honking communicates what turn signals and lane conventions convey in the United States. Earbuds and motorcyclists’ helmets plaster the latest Samsung or iPhone to riders ears while the rear passengers check email, social media or just make phone calls while hurtling at the local speed limit of forty kilometers per hour. The traffic feels more chaotic and faster than it really is because of the woven tapestry of cars, motorcycles, scooters, and frequent pedestrians who cross through traffic knowing that nothing will hit them.
As we reach the outskirts of Delhi, crossing into Uttar Pradesh, the suburbs of Noida and Greater Noida, the traffic approaches something like the Baltimore Beltway (I-695) where my father taught me the rules of traffic management and how to speed. He insisted that the most important of driving was to learn how to keep pace with the other cars while maintaining observance of what was above, below, before, behind, and on both sides of your vehicle. The Yamuna Expressway to Agra with its clean pale cement grayish roads looks new even more than a decade past its completion.
Although my trip companions think that the driving in Delhi, Dharamsala, and Agra is horrible, and that I’m crazy for even considering driving here, my heart salivates over the opportunity. I think of you and wonder whether you’d be up to renting scooters in Dharamsala or Delhi and taking a turn or two.
Passing on the right, or left, or if on two wheels between cars that straddle lanes is the norm. Attempts to maintain what appears to be a typical American standard with polite staying in one ‘s lane, signaling with the left turn signal to go left and the right signal to go right seems optional or even a sign to ignore the driver. This appears to be the norm regardless of where one is in India. As my father often reminded me on road trips, “Like life, the road is never boring”.
My father would have loved the route on the way down to New Delhi from Dharamsala, Himachal Pradesh where the last two hours through the mountains reminded me of past family road trips. The curves make this a driver’s paradise and for some, their worst nightmare. Five minutes in a vehicle emphasizes how drivers require spatial awareness to survive and thrive on the roads. Some of my trip mates needed motion sickness medication because the twists through the cascades of turns even at 13-18 km/h (8-11mph) feel faster than they actually are. Add in dust from the perennial construction even in the lower mountains, and the increasing heat as we pass through the state of Punjab and approach the heat that rises over New Delhi, chai (tea) stops are welcome.
First look at the Taj Mahal through the Great Gate (Drawaza –e – Rauza) at the Taj Mahal, Tajganj, Agra, Uttar Pradesh [C. Ajana]
The only difference between roads in and around beautiful spaces in Dharamsala, Himachal Pradesh and those in and around Delhi is the narrowness. Having to back up because there is no place to turn or pull over as another equally tiny vehicle lurches forward down the street towards you while several pedestrians attempt to cross your path, a code sedately chews something out of the trash on your left side of the car. Because the driver is on the right side, most of the white Toyota tourist cars have a five speed with the owner shifting into second gear at 20 km/hr, into third at 30 km/hr, into fourth at 40 km/hr and into fifth gear at 60 km/hr on the highway.
On the fully designated highways, like the Yamuna Expressway, signs reflect what probably is a deadly reality in India as it is in the United States: speeding, drunk driving, and tailgating. Yellow roadside gantry signs in Hindi and English repeat frequent reminders regarding the potential of being stopped for violations. Electronic overhead traffic highway signs post reminders to wear a seatbelt, although none are quite as catchy as the “Click It or Ticket” campaign of the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, a part of the US Department of Transportation.
While my tour mates may think I’m crazy for even considering driving here, my heart salivates over the opportunity. I think of you and wonder whether you’d be up to renting scooters in Dharamsala or Delhi and taking a turn or two.
Sadly, like in the US, expressway roadside stops flash bright banners for Burger King, Subway, and Starbucks. The sun glows through. haze over the trees and lush farmland seen in the distance to the left side of the road. To the right, the driver’s side here, the ever present median with a variety of plants – some tall as trees, some short as green shrubs pop up in between myriad flowers in cream, fuchsia, and coral. The movement of a foot sticking out of a grayish-brown hut that blends in with exposed branches alerts passers by that someone actually inhabits the small space. Whether temporarily or permanently, perhaps to care for the many plants on the highway, who knows.
Everywhere traffic continues to weave a symphony with a rare symbol clash. You can tell how good a driver is by how many dents are present on the white Toyota Innova Hydrous SUVs that stream past. The most annoying drivers appear to be those who stop suddenly in the middle of the road for seemingly no reason or those who appear to be spatially unaware that they are veering too close to the car on their right. This includes pedestrians who cross in the middle of traffic. They too have a role in the movement of the dance.
My father would laugh if I mentioned that the very driving and traffic rules insurance companies want others to follow in India are the disregarded with a carelessness that is quite funny when you think about it. Honking is what makes traffic memorable for me in India. They post so many “no honking zone” signs that are completely ignored. Our driver smiled when I pointed this out and asked why anyone even bothers, before proceeding to honk at the driver trying to squeeze into a terribly small space between the dotted line and our vehicle. I truly believe that the honking culture present in India is safer for navigating roads than a system that forbids it; however, this would be dangerous for the deaf or hard of hearing drivers. While honking creates noise pollution, it is a beautiful coherence that allows the best in drivers to shine through. Although it would not work in the US simply due to our customary reliance on the car horn as a rarely used emergency indicator, I wish that we had the same beauty in our cities. The closest system that even matches it in the United States would be headlight flashing or for cornering tight mountain roads a combination of horn use during daytime use and headlights during nighttime use. The laissez-faire approach to traffic mirrors the beauty of life and the many lessons our parents teach us.
As we draw nearer to Father’s Day, as we catch a first glimpse in Agra, I think of the many lessons learned from being on the road. I thank you for teaching me how each trip brings both joy and guidance to savor throughout life. The destination might be a place, a building, a career, marriage or children, but the reality is that life itself holds the greatest mysteries and joys.
The repeated hum of classic Indian tunes from the seventies tempts me to draw my lids closed. Every time the father-son duet by Udit Narayan & Aditya Narayan “Akele Hum Akele Tum” from the Hindi Movie Akele Hum Akele Tum plays during the drive, I think of you. The chorus of “I love you, Daddy” by the son is the cutest thing.
Standing in Line Outside the Taj Mahal- Tajganj, Agra, Uttar Pradesh [C. Ajana]
It reminds me of the greatest gift you showed me as a child: while the road may tempt you to lull off to sleep after many hours of driving, there is too much to see in this world to fall asleep – even on vacation. So I stay awake and savor every hazy moment. I do not know when I’ll pass this way again. Happy Father’s Day, Dad… and thank you.
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