As The Walls Collapsed

San Diego, CA

My fingers clutched tightly to the railing, sweat dripping down my forehead. Sheer desperation and the will to live gave me the determination to keep hanging. I closed my eyes tightly, for I knew if I looked down the fear of falling would melt my desire to keep holding on. 

“I can’t do it any longer! I’m going to fall!” 

I didn’t know where my cousin was, but the sound of his devious giggles rang in my ears. This would be fun, he said. I’ll hold you, he said. My mind raced and my heart beat in panic. Just four years old, I was much too young to comprehend death but nonetheless sensed that my life was at stake. Forget the fact I was only two feet from the ground. In that moment, I couldn’t perceive where the ground was. The nightmares of falling off a cliff came to mind, except I always woke up. I couldn’t wake up from this. 

My arms trembled and my hands began to slip. And just as I let go, I felt arms around me, strong arms, loving arms. 

“Didn’t you have fun?” My cousin smiled at me with mischief dancing in his eyes. His round, cuddly appearance almost made me forget the way he tormented me. Six feet tall, he towered over my tiny body. Ten years older to me, he reminded me of all I was not and all I didn’t have. He possessed the unwavering confidence I wished I had in myself. I too wanted to be admired, respected, not treated like a child. 

I returned his devilish grin with a cold stare, angrily shoved him away and stormed inside. As he called after me, a small smile creeped across my face. I enjoyed every second of it, though I wasn’t about to let him know that. I was scared - in fact, I was terrified. But I knew at the back of my mind that he would never let me fall. From that moment on, those stairs took on a new meaning for me. They fed my hunger for adventure and exhilaration while stretching my imagination to its limits. 

The entirety of my family’s home in India nourished my childhood curiosity as well as my uncapped mischievousness. When it was first built, the street it rested on was utopic. Filled with serenity, each morning stray dogs barked as the sun’s gleaming rays poured golden light onto the world. Fruit and vegetable vendors rolled their squeaky carts into the street, yelling their bargain prices into the morning sky. The air smelled like jasmine flowers and fresh fruits. Neighbors greeted one another warmly before going on with their day. Life was simple, and life was good. 

With time, this storybook setting evolved into a noisy urban hotspot. Most of the neighbors left, unable to bear the noise and pollution. A thick layer of smog settled on the horizon and tainted the purity of the air. Markets and eateries displaced homes one by one as a community transformed into a commercial center. Strident car horns replaced the chirps of songbirds. People scrambled around in a mad hurry, not stopping even to say hello. Amongst all this change, though, our house remained. 

Rusty yet elegant iron gates opened into a wonderland. Coconut trees, one on each side, soared into the sky. Mango trees planted by my father served as a sanctuary for birds, monkeys, and bats. We lived harmoniously with our wild neighbors. Two majestic pillars adorned the main entry. The inside of the house was simple, but it was this simplicity that gave it character. Low ceilings and maroon walls gave all of us comfort. Our quality of life didn’t depend on high-end architecture or fancy furniture. Just being inside those walls was enough. It was there that we were truly a family. 

My favorite location by far was the terrace. Traditionally, it served as an environmentally friendly way to dry clothes. Silk kurtas and saris billowed in the breeze with colossal coconut trees swaying in the background. Sleek skyscrapers didn’t come close to the magnificence of those trees. Planted by my grandfather in the 1950s, they grew with my family and served as a symbol of our unity. I raced around the terrace, bare foot, my fingertips brushing against fabric of all colors and textures. My feet tingled against the warmth of the concrete floor. A vibrant symphony of car horns and motorcycles revving in the overcrowded streets below added the perfect background music to my little paradise. I cherished the commotion. It made everything complete.

The real fun began with baby coconuts, those that fell from the trees prematurely. Each day I scavenged for those coconuts as if searching for an oasis in the midst of a barren desert. Each one I found promised new ways to wreak havoc. My favorite game consisted of chucking the coconuts with full force at the traffic below. I aimed for buses, for fancy cars, sometimes for people. Stunning ricochets and clean shots into bus windows gave me bonus points. I perfected the method of staying out of sight while still being able to witness the reactions that unsuspecting civilians had to my very uncivil actions. I laughed at their shock, smirked at their irritation. It was pure evil, really. But I enjoyed every moment. In terms of practicality, those baby coconuts were close to useless. They couldn’t be cooked with or eaten or sold. No water could be extracted from within their hard, dry shells. But for me, they provided hours of enjoyment and a lifetime of memories. For me, they were invaluable. 

Some days the neighbor’s terrace was a gleaming treasure chest of coconuts. Not about to let them go to waste, I decided to go across and collect them. Honestly, I don’t know what drove me to make such a risky decision. Our terrace was a good fifteen feet off the ground and the neighbor’s was a horizontal distance of five feet across. I looked down, assessing how far I would fall if I made a single wrong move. I pictured a pathetic epitaph inscribed on my gravestone: “Here lies Palini. Fell to death collecting coconuts.” I pushed away the thought. 

I sat on the edge, my feet dangling above the empty space waiting to suck me in. Strangely enough, I was calm and unafraid. I tentatively reached out one arm while using the other to stay anchored on our terrace, just in case I changed my mind. In a split second of Herculean strength, I pulled myself across and rolled onto the other side. I let out a mighty laugh. I had done it, I was a hero, a warrior! And if my family saw me I wouldn’t live to enjoy my victory. I frantically collected about ten coconuts, threw them across, and prepared to go back. Without an incentive, crossing suddenly became much more terrifying. The height multiplied, the distance expanded, and my bravado shriveled. I didn’t use enough strength to pull myself across, and for a few terrifying seconds I felt my heart drop as my hands grasped at the empty air. Time stopped. The blaring of traffic disappeared and all I heard was the sound of my breath coming in heaving gasps and my heart pounding in my chest. What a sad way to die. Self-pity was quickly replaced by adrenaline. I managed to grab the wall and propel myself back over. I stared at the sky and smiled at my narrow escape, soaking in the exhilaration of nearly dying. Amazingly, no one ever found out about my antics up on the terrace; it remained a secret between me and the house. The years passed in this way; every other year or so I visited India, creating more memories within the walls of my first home. 

I can’t exactly remember when my father made the decision to sell the India house, but I suspect it had something to do with my grandmother’s passing. The day she passed, I saw him cry for the first (and only) time. I didn’t know how to react, how to console the one who usually did the consoling. From that day, my father was convinced that our India house had to go. His was the first generation to grow up there after all, and his mother’s absence nullified any reason for the house to remain. It would only be a painful reminder of all that was no more, and all he didn’t wish to hold on to. The next seven years revolved around the complicated matter of selling the house. I still don’t know the details, but the angry phone calls my father made to India every morning signaled that it was extremely complex and beyond my understanding. His voice dripped with frustration and sorrow, echoing around our house and within my mind. 

Those were the only times I ever saw him get really angry. His tough outer shell hid a man who was as sensitive as I. His reputation as a prankster rubbed off on me, and probably was a big influencer of my decision to fling coconuts at strangers. No one could send me into fits of laughter like my father. His signature goofy face – eyes rolled inwards and tongue poking out to the side – made me lose all self-control. Bald and beautiful, I identified him in crowds by his shiny head that stuck out like an egg. He made up for all his hours at the office with countless hugs and kisses. What impressed me most about my father was his dutiful approach to everything. Be it working with toxic chemicals and rattling centrifuges or plump tomatoes and steaming stovetops, the dedication was there. He worked in biotech, but always hinted that his true passion was cooking. Never one to use recipes, he made stunning dishes off the top of his head using only pure instinct. A pinch of salt here, a dash of lemon juice there, the delicate placement of a cilantro leaf – these minute details made his food divine. 

This hero of a man did possess certain frustrating flaws. His temper exploded in hot flashes and his words scratched like talons. He didn’t hesitate to openly voice his opinions and regularly fought with people over minor issues. His road rage and rash driving sent him to traffic court more than a couple times. I can almost imagine him rolling his eyes with disdain in front of the judge. His unapologetic demeanor put many people off, but I loved him for everything, temper and all. [insert passage about his loyalty] After all, he knew me better than I knew myself. 

My father’s sickness hit all of us like a speeding train on broken tracks. No one could comprehend it. No one wanted to comprehend it. To accept that someone you love is deteriorating before your eyes is to give away a piece of your heart and soul. In the midst of his treatments, my cousin Janani busily planned her wedding. For years she fell in and out of love and abusive relationships, so we all wanted to be happy for her. We busied ourselves with the preparations, inviting long lost friends and booking venues. However, all of us-  Janani included - could not shake off the thorny tendrils of gloom that wrapped around our hearts. My father couldn’t make it to India for her wedding because he was not in the condition to travel. His absence made itself known, infecting my thoughts like a plague and resting heavily on my already drooping shoulders.

That same summer, our India house was hold. As my family grudgingly signed the papers, we tried to convince ourselves in vain that change was for the best. It was a brutal time for my family. My father’s ailing health combined with selling a family legacy stretched all of us to our breaking points. My mind was tormented by the thought that when I left India that summer, I would never live in that house again. Would never prance around the terrace and throw baby coconuts. Would never dangle from the stairs as if my life depended on it. Would never walk on those floors, travel those rooms, touch those walls. Never again. And to know that I was leaving only to see my father slip away before my eyes sent me spiraling down a bottomless pit of heartache. 

My family tried to console me. 

“The house will always be here. You can always come back and visit.” 

“Appa [my father] will get better. Don’t worry.” 

As my father’s conditioned worsened, I was forced to leave India abruptly. Sadness hung above my head that week. I felt like a miserable cartoon character walking around with a storm cloud perpetually pouring rain above my head. No words can fully describe the depths of that pain. I became a shell of myself, living and breathing yet not absorbing what was happening. I checked all my bags halfheartedly, not really caring if I forgot something. I wanted to forget it all. But it was burned into my soul like a botched tattoo that I could not get removed. As our car left for the airport, tears streamed uncontrollably. My world was falling apart, and I could not pick the pieces up fast enough. I looked out the window and watched as my childhood wonderland grew smaller and smaller. I watched as the gates faded away, as the mango trees blurred, and finally, as the coconut trees disappeared into the morning mist. 

Fast-forward. September 2017. Eleven months after my father’s departure from the world and our lives. A year after we sold the house. My cousin finally broke the news. The India house had been demolished. Torn to the ground, coconut trees and all. I closed my eyes. Images of myself clutching the railing, hanging off the edge of the terrace, and throwing coconuts flashed through my mind like a jet plane. I imagined myself standing on the terrace. I imagined the bulldozers roaring to life as they prepared for destruction. I imagined feeling the first impact, the ground shaking under my feet. I imagined falling as the floor disappeared from beneath me. The walls collapsed around me, but I did not hide. I refused to run away or seek cover. As the walls collapsed I rose. I stood above it all in defiance. Take my home. Do with it what you will. But you cannot faze me, cannot break me, cannot erase years of memories. As the walls collapsed I let go once and for all. I opened my eyes and threw myself back into reality. 

“There’s one thing you have to remember always. Be bold! You can’t run away from what scares you. Just know that I love you and that I’ll always be there if something goes wrong. Just don’t be afraid to try. And never, ever, back down.” 

My father’s voice rang in my ears. I wiped away the single tear that slid down my cheek. I exhaled, releasing what felt like a lifetime of trapped emotions. The pain and heartbreak I felt leading up to that point numbed my ability to feel anything. I took all of my losses as a chance for a new beginning, a new life, a new me. A part of me collapsed that day, but to create something new we must let go of what is old and broken down. So, I took my shattered self and let her go. As the walls collapsed, I did too. But it was in the damage that I found myself.