A Week Without “Appa”

Quiet. How I'd like it to be sometimes.

I went to the temple almost every day.

I didn't have anyone asking me, “Appa, are we done?”

I could just cement myself there, without hurry, for a few hours. I could recite the Rudram without somebody tugging at my sleeve. And yet, every now and then, I would think that it would have been nice to have the kids there too.

I didn't have to worry about picking up Akhil or Sahana from somewhere. I didn't get messages from my wife asking me to make a pit stop at the Indian store or Costco. I didn't have to look at the clock and suddenly remember that someone had basketball or tennis.

It was as though life had come to a standstill.

And I liked it.

In the middle of a normal workday, I could be in an important meeting when Akhil would come charging into the room.

“Appa, please approve.”

For a brief second, I wouldn't even understand what he was asking. Then I would realize that I had absentmindedly approved some extra YouTube-watching time. Or something to do with Nintendo. Or something equally trivial.

Akhil has a baritone that can shake a person out of his reverie.

Then there are the thoughts constantly running in the background.

Wait, I have to drop Akhil off at basketball at this time.

I have to pick up Sahana from tennis.

I should remind them about their classes.

What's for lunch?

What do we do for dinner?

Why are they so finicky about breakfast?

My wife and I have our heads explode constantly, rearrange themselves in time, and then re-explode.

For a week, all of that disappeared.

Maybe that was also why I wasn't in a hurry to get back home.

Because once I did, there was the emptiness of it all.

On a normal night, I might be working late when my daughter calls out from the bedroom.

“Appa, get me some cheese.”

A few minutes later:

“Appa, can you please keep my glasses on the side?”

Then Akhil would want something.

I didn't miss the constant nags. Yet, in some strange way, I missed them.

The chaos and hurriedness were gone, replaced by a quietude that I wasn't quite ready for.

Sahana had gotten into Harry Potter mode. Sahana is the sort of person who, when she finds something interesting, will explore a hundred videos on the topic. It all comes from the mother, I say.

So before she left for the trip, she was sharing all sorts of trivia about the books and movies with me. She would find a passage in the book, ask me to spot the mistake, and then explain some piece of trivia about why the answer wasn't what I thought it was.

And then Hema would suddenly interrupt.

“Sahana, don't give away the plot.”

Both of us barely remember anything. I tell Hema that there is no way either of us is going to reread the books.

“Sahana, continue!” I say.

And then, suddenly, there was just silence.

I went to Giri Traders in Sunnyvale and picked up some Vedanta books. I discovered the Shiva Aparadha Kshamapana Stotram of Adi Shankara and was completely blown away by it.

That led to a few more books.

I came home and listened to satsangs. I discovered the Subrahmanya Bhujangam, again attributed to Adi Shankara. I wondered how someone could write what he wrote. Works traditionally attributed to him from an extraordinarily young age can take me weeks or months just to begin processing.

I went deeper and deeper down that rabbit hole.

And I was in a state of tranquility.

At one point, I thought this might be a good time to get onto Netflix and start a series.

But time suddenly felt invaluable.

I had better things to do.

After all the spiritually heavy reading, though, I wanted something lighter. So I picked up Kane and Abel. Every few years, I reread what I consider Jeffrey Archer's best work.

I loved it all over again. There's something about returning to a book after many years. The book remains the same, but you don't. Twenty years ago, I was rooting for Abel. These days, I find myself understanding Kane better.

But that's probably another blog post.

They got back a couple of days ago.

Wait a minute.

Sahana wants me to adjust her blanket.

My thought process is broken.

What was I writing about?

Yes. Reading is a gift.

But living without people at home is boring.

Wait a minute.

Akhil wants some milk.

He wants me to microwave it for exactly 40 seconds. He likes his food—and apparently his drinks—steaming hot. And, of course, all of this must be delivered to the comfort of his room.

I give him some gyaan about how he should do his own work.

The advice is obviously not heeded.

I express my displeasure.

“Both of you are useless,” I comment.

Hema calls out.

“Guys, go and get whatever you want. Don't take us for granted.”

And just like that, the chaos has fully found its way back into the house.

The quietness I had longed for before their trip—the quietness I actually got for those few days—has completely vanished.

I liked the silence.

I liked being able to sit in the temple without anyone asking, “Appa, are we done?”

I liked not having to watch the clock. I liked having nowhere to rush to and nobody waiting to be picked up.

And now, once again, someone needs milk. Someone needs a blanket adjusted. Someone needs something approved. Someone needs to be dropped somewhere.

I complain about it.

And when it disappears, I miss it.

I suppose somewhere between the quiet and the chaos is my life.

And I rather like it there.

---