My last day in Bombay I began to think crazy thoughts:
Is this my last rickshaw ride?
When will I see my last cow?
And my overstimulated brain strained to take in every last impression, every possible sensation.

And then we piled the suitcases out of the rickshaw by the side of the road and looked across to the house. A crowd in white had gathered to mourn a neighbor who had died the night before—everyone in this house is like family, so the grief was heavy. Out of respect, we waited. Then they lifted the wrapped body and processed to the cremation site a short distance away.

Because we were engaged in something auspicious, we could not associate with the family in their loss. Before we entered Pallu’s home, Veena washed our feet because we had looked at the body.

I didn’t know it at the time but my presence as a guest created difficulties for the mourning family who were not to listen to music as part of their ritual, because Pallu and her sitar teacher prepared and played for me that afternoon. Just for me. It’s just interesting music, you have to let yourself be “in” the music, so there you are—and then they start “jamming.”

Goodbyes. Many gifts in many forms.

Final final errands, through the crowed sidewalk markets with Veena, picking up wedding items and food treats to take home. Literally pushing ahead. Crossing the street through perilous traffic with help from a stranger—we lived!

When I expressed regret that we weren’t able to say goodbye to the cook, Kaku, I was told, “She waited for all of you until 7:15, but then we had to rush home for the water. She only gets 15 minutes of water a day, so she couldn’t miss it.”

Mumbai to Singapore to Seoul to San Franciso to Seattle with 15 minutes of water to think about.