Reading Mahabharata at O'Hare

Life teaches lessons at the strangest of places. This one was at the seating area of Gate H7 at Chicago’s O’Hare airport.

It was the second day of the new-year, early in the morning, about 7.00 am. My wife and our two boys were sitting in anticipation of a vacation about to start.

Across from us was a father with his two sons flanking on each side. The older one was about 12 years old and the younger one 7, the same age as our older one.

Slightly disheveled hair indicated they had concluded it was just too early to jump in the shower before heading to the airport. By the looks of it and their dressing, I guessed they were a family from the Northwest—the rugged attire and a more casual look versus what I would have expected from a Midwestern people.

We were going about our as normal a self as it gets. Our two boys had their faces dug in fresh blueberry muffins while my wife and I were picking the collateral damage being littered on the floor.

Juice was spilt and then wiped; bags stepped on by the older one as he accessed his DS and a book to read, that led to all the contents being displayed on the stained carpet for the rest of the passengers to inspect.

All that coupled with my frantic search for our boarding passes within jacket pockets before reverting to the classic “but I gave it to you after the security check!” Next followed a hunt for the stubs of the checked in bags, which were eventually found in one of the more discrete and seldom used pockets of an old bag pack we were carrying.

This chaos was in stark contrast to the calm across from us. The 12 year old had his head buried in a thick book as he cradled his chin with the cup of his palm. The 7 year old was supposed to be paying attention to the book that his father was reading to him, but was obviously finding the chaos in front of him more enticing.

The next course of the Rishi family breakfast was laid out: a neat stack of six bananas. At that instance, my wife did what I call the Indian train journey routine. She offered a banana to the 7 year old who did look famished or at least so watching us. His father approved of the distraction. The 12 year old looked up and the next moment was peeling the yellow skin off of one.

Now there were five of us with semi-peeled bananas looking at each other at the waiting area of Gate H7. The sun had just arisen that winter day. The bananas had brought the chaos as well as the book reading to a stop. We spent time staring at each other in the bright lights from the strobe in the sky as people around us seemingly moved in slow motion. The attendant at the gate started typing at the keyboard with angst; others settled in seats around us; a janitor pushed his large bucket on wheels with apathy.

At that instance, my wife quietly pointed out the book the 12 year old was reading. The letters “MAHABH..” were legible. I could even see the blue skin of Krishna and the golden wheels of the chariot.

Shocking really. What made a non-Indian, pre-teen pick that book? Mahabharata, the great epic, is after all a philosophical domain that has mostly been restricted to Indians and India. One seldom sees it around and that too almost never in the seating area of an airport in the heartland of America held by a kid! A 12 year old “American” reading Mahabharata?

Now, my curiosity was bursting out of bounds. I was committed to get to the bottom of this. Caucasian folk, as Northwestern as elk, with a son reading Mahabharata was just not the norm.

The attendant announced time to board. The Rishi family started the boarding process pushing everyone aside, still exploiting the “pre-boarding for those with children,” although one could argue we had made it past that elite category. The walk through to our seats was normal—carry-on bags being dragged, the two little ones bumping in to each other and walking with the muffins bits falling from their clothes leaving a curvy trail behind. The final putsch came as the two boys tackled their mother and father away in the narrow aisle and took the window seats on each end with a gleeful smile.

We were now seated and strapped, starting our own “National Lampoon’s vacation.”

The disheveled hair, unshaven father and his two sons followed the seating rules and eventually entered the plane, as I was patiently hoping they would be seated around us. They came and sat in the row immediately ahead of us. My older son, fully consumed with his DS, a Christmas gift, could not be bothered.

Delhi. Yes, I heard the city’s name uttered. And then mention of a southern Indian name as the father spoke to his younger son about a friend.

That was the invitation I was looking for.

“Delhi, did I hear you say Delhi,” I leaned forward casually but in earnest. “Oh yes, we are just returning from a 15 day trip, or as the Indians would say, we were in India for a fortnight!” the father responded with a smile.

Now, everyone around our little commune was looking at me. It was now upon me to take this engagement forward.

Conversations that ensued told us that these people were Indophiles—no, not the hippie variety who discovered India in the 60s, but a different kind.

The father had been a Fulbright scholar 20 years ago in “Madras” and decided to stay on for 4 years. He was fluent in Tamil and could speak Hindi as well. As life’s events and experiences leave a long mark on our personality and interests, his were quintessentially Indian. He loved the unabashed, un-selfish friendliness of India’s Indians—Indians who were intellectuals and commoners—Indians whose curiosity was raised when they met him and then the friendship built and endured over the next two decades.

We both looked at the roof of the plane, as if it was the sky, and reminisced an India bygone, of simple folk, slower life, uncontaminated from the modern west and with little traffic.

“Delhi Belly, spicy food? No issues. We know India and my kids eat Indian food in the town of Fort Collins, Colorado in restaurants or when I prepare it at home: Dosas, Daal, Dum Pukht, everything!” he said.

They all then talked about the friend who was now heading the Gandhi Museum, once just another scholar with the father many years ago. And yes the usual, the visit to the Taj and the Minar. His love for the town of Varanasi came out as I nudged him, with my own affiliation to it.

The older boy, in a conversation with his father, admirably talked about the similarities of the Mahabharata and a Greek epic that I was not familiar with. In all this heavy exchange, there was just one sign of normalcy. Their 7 year old wished he was consumed on the DS as my 7 year old was through most of this conversation.

Now, back to the cliché I started off with--life’s lessons at the oddest of places. The thought of a father who had traveled to [still a mostly] exotic land, could not be missed. But, more than that, the dedication to reading in that family was the one to take away. This was a trio that had just gotten off a treacherously long flight (which explained the disheveled hair) but were entertaining themselves not only by reading but being read to. No nap or shut-eye for them.

But for the relatively short conversation we had, the four hours or so we were together, the family of three worked through pages and pages of the books they were carrying.

Although I have been a reader to my boys, the run-in with this family emphasized even more how that simple indulgence is critical in this age of instant messages, search engines and video games. And that was the first of many lessons in that vacation.

Since then, I have taken the reading with my boys to the next level. I often take the two of my own on me, with a blanket embalming us. We have trudged through many a monotonous, funny and thrilling book.

Although, at times to my chagrin, I have been stopped in the reading tracks in this fatherly gratification, by the calmness of the two on me—only to discover that I have managed to put the two boys to sleep.
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(The column will be first published in India Abroad.)