July 28, 2021: Some traumas live forever

July 28, 2021: Some traumas live forever. This is a date etched in memory. Not of COVID-19, not of the now. But before. Long before. When my son was in that strange age when you he was young but getting to a point where his decisions and opinions were valuable because he could maintain a sense of balance that my wife and I might lose when faced with a crisis. A personal crisis. Today, I relived that day, in my mind, as my family does every year. It was a pleasant morning; we were all rested as the flight landed in Heathrow. There was a mood of upliftment amongst us. In those times there were many flights between India and London, and the flight we took might actually have been from the city. We always travel heavy. I have never fully understood how we travel so heavy. In the really old days, as a bondhu recalled recently, I would travel heavy and there would be some wide-eyed anticipation of what my bag would spew forth as the little gifts for everyone would pour out. The young ones would wait for the chocolates, I tried to remember everyone, some a little more than others. I might still be doing that now. But why the bags were so heavy leaving from India was not clear to me. What were carrying to America? Will we get stopped at customs? After retrieving the bags on that cool July morning and depositing them at the left luggage we walked to the underground station. My uncle, who lives in Wandsworth, had promised to pick us up from Hammersmith. The Piccadilly line from Heathrow has a stop in Hammersmith. A 35 to 40-minute ride. The train was empty when it left from Heathrow. Our handbags only, and we settled down for the ride. As the train sped through the picturesque English countryside we were planning what we would do for the few days in London. Maybe lunch at the pub on Garrot Lane, a visit to Sainsbury to pick up some legendary Sainsbury dark chocolate. Perhaps a visit to Selfridges on Oxford Street. Many years ago my father had brought me a white nylon shirt from Selfridges. It worked well for my school uniform of white shirt, black pant, and red tie. I had to wear a tie everyday in my entire school life. I think that is when I had subconsciously decided that I will never join a profession that requires me to wear a tie on a regular basis. My phone rang about halfway between Heathrow and Hammersmith. Those were the flip phones. Smart phones were yet to appear. I recognized the number. It was late in the day from where the call came. I answered it. I got a similar phone call earlier in my life. Also in Heathrow. But that story I will tell when the time is right. I was not sure what to expect would happen when I would tell the family the news I had just heard. We alighted at the next station. And Srijoy made the right decision. A cool head in the midst of trauma. We should go back to America. He had said. And then decide what we must do. We agreed. We proceeded on the next train to Hammersmith. On this day, I can only think of one song, Don McLean’s words, “Do you recall what was revealed/The day the music died?” And, Tinku, my bondhu and my wife’s sister, sang so well.