Going to India is always a thrill for me. When I was younger, the joy probably sprouted mostly from sightseeing and getting exotic trinkets here and there. As I got older, the value began to principally spring from getting to know the family better, as most all of my dad's family lives there. Now, I'd say, the best parts of coming to India are a combination of family time as well as gaining more knowledge about my roots.
This time around, one of the most memorable parts of the trip was actually the five hour car ride from Delhi to Punjab. We left at four in the morning and I slept most of the way there. My dad went so far as to ask our hotel if we could borrow a pillow and blanket so I would be as comfortable as possible during what has, historically, always been the most dreaded car ride of the India trip. Needless to say, I was quite comfortable. As the sun started to rise, my eyes fluttered open every now and again; my eyes were drawn to my father's face, which, I haven't really been able to examine in a long while. When you live with someone, you never notice the subtle changes in their appearance. Even when he comes to visit me at college, the moments are so packed with my endless descriptions of teachers, friends, course material, complaints about the dining hall, etc., that we never get to truly embrace the simplicity of being in each others' presence. So when my eyes fluttered open, I noticed the thin lines around my dad's eyes which had not been there before.
It was strange to finally see the physical manifestations of his age.
My whole life, my dad's had the inquisitive nature of a small child, the energy of an enthused twenty-something, and the wisdom of an old man.
