Columnists

Tightrope Walker

by FELICIA KAUR JODHKA

 

I live a fine line - a line finer than the hyphen embedded within the word Punjabi-American. 

I walk cautiously, one foot in front of the other, on the border of two countries that will never geographically neighbor each other but are stitched together with the fibers of my being, intertwined with the threads of my resolve to keep them connected, just as the hyphen that is embedded within the word Punjabi-American. 

Born in America, I live proudly in the land of the free and the home of the brave.  Yet flowing fervently through my veins is the blood of my Punjabi ancestors. And balancing the length of this tight-roped border with no safety net in sight, I cry. 

A tear precipitated by raw emotion settles on my eyelash - its fragility defined solely by the thin hair that supports it.  But, in time, it succumbs to the force of gravity, falling into a mustard field in Punjab.  There, it irrigates a farmer's seed of hope that he may find a husband for his

beautiful, fair, slim, tall, family-oriented, religious 25-year-old daughter. She enjoys cooking, cleaning, stitching ...

Acres away, she sits on the dirt floor, leaning over a brick oven cooking chapatti after chapatti after chapatti.  She modestly peers down, occasionally catching a glimpse of the feet of passersby as her rough, coarse hands pitter-patter the soft dough     

                  pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter

It is a melody that her mother, and her grandmother, and her great-grandmother have played for ages.  It is a melody of a woman's love that leaves the unsatiated, hungry listener always panging to hear more.

Yet another tear drops and follows the contour of the moist, perspiring back of a young woman dressed in professional attire.  She sits on an office chair with legs crossed, shoulders drawn back.  Her soft, silky hand firmly shakes the man's hand across from her.  Her powerful, unwavering voice, saturated with intense fervor, echoes against the walls adorned with diplomas and degrees. 

There is a great passion in her eyes.  He sees it as their gazes meet, and he knows immediately that she is the one.

"Congratulations, Dr. Kaur!  You have got yourself your first job.  Welcome to the family!" he exclaims. 

She signs the legally binding contract and is now inseparable from the family he speaks about.  She dons a long, white coat, her wedding gown, custom embroidered with her new last name:   A. Kaur, MD.  Around her neck hangs a stethoscope, a mangalsutar symbolic of her steadfast commitment and fidelity to the field of medicine.  And with it she listens to the musical rhythm that propagates life

                      lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub

Punjabi-American.  It is who I supposedly am.  Yet, I find myself straddling and desperately hanging on to the hyphen that conjoins, but also separates.  I am - Oh God, who am I?  But a mere symbol?  Am I a mark of punctuation that attempts to describe a brand which was never completely this, nor fully that?  

My lips quiver.  My body shakes.  Beads of sweat trickle down and merge with tears.  Ribs cave in and imprison and suffocate the very heart they were designed to protect.  I gasp for breath as the drum of death beats in my chest.  I hear it arrythmically throb between my ears

lub-pitter-dub lub-patter-dub lub-pitter-dub lub -

And I scream hysterically.  My strength and balance abandon me, and I fall from the fine line of duality.  As I fall, I cry.  I pray.  I bow.  I surrender.  I finally accept.   I fall to the ground - a sacred ground - that has no boundary.  With the little strength that remains, I place my ear against it and listen.  I hear the pulsating naad of beauty ravish my mind and enrapture my soul     

wahe-guru wahe-guru wahe-guru

I hear the roots of love that are anchored firmly in the soil of faith, that are nourished by the blood of martyrs, that are invigorated with the light and warmth of naam.  This is my land, and I seek solace from it.  This is my foundation, and I build upon it.  This is my identity, and I pray that I stay true to it.

As I lie at the feet of death, He knocks and awaits at my door

And permeates my being when I is no longer more.

I die, and i live, and You live, and

i exalt in static, constant ecstasy for

i have found my true, timeless identity

i - not myself, but You - have set me free from me

The truth is, what the truth was, what the truth will always be.

 

April 11, 2008 

 

 

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