My Father’s Country

by Johanna Nauraine

Bollywood

When you dance across the room, hands aflutter, you resemble a young girl. You must be hearing music in your head — not the lonely whine of the sitar, but something like a night breeze — delicate, fluid, the choreography so magnetic, you are both my father and a diva, sparkling, demanding center stage.

Curry

Every Saturday you cook us rice and chicken curry. All afternoon, that heavy scent fills the air, permeating my mother’s long drapes — the ones with yellow birds. For days afterwards, I smell that meal on my clothes, in my hair, on my skin. It is so like you to leave a pungent aftertaste.

Shalimar

You call our home, “Shalimar,” described by Wikipedia as “a Persian paradise garden intended to create a representation of an earthly utopia in which humans co-exist in perfect harmony with all elements of nature.” Apparently, you dismiss the deep rancor among us and the fact that our white, two-story home, sits in the middle of an ordinary housing development on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa.

Upanishads

You strut around the house, telling us you are a Brahmin and the son of a wealthy British diplomat. You say you were once a Hindu. I don’t know if you’ve seen the Taj Mahal, or walked along the Ganges, but occasionally, you hide in an upstairs bedroom and talk on the phone with a brother whose name you never share. Perhaps you take issue with "the supreme existence or absolute reality,” touted in the Upanishads. You enjoy being a fantasist, spinning a life based on myth.

Sanskrit

You love to speak in rhymes. More often than not, my mother, brother, and both my sisters collapse in laughter at your silliness. It is a strange poetry, a rhythm so unique, some might refer to it as ‘word salad,’ which is characteristic of schizophrenics. But you are also a beautiful orator. You have a slight British accent, which belies your colonial upbringing. When I listen to you preach, in your little country church, I am mesmerized by your rich baritone. You exude charisma, a commanding presence, an authorial grasp of language. All around me, the faces of your parishioners are rapt with awe. What else might I expect from a man whose ancient language is “a means of communication and dialogue by the Hindu Celestial Gods.”

BIO: Johanna Nauraine is an Asian American writer who has been a serious student of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for decades. Her work has been published in Bright Flash Literary Review, Bristol Noir, ASP Publishing, Vol. 11, Witcraft, The Pure Slush Anthology on Loss, Vol. 9, Discretionary Love, and she has forthcoming publications in BarBar and The Stray Branch, Winter, 2024. Johanna is a retired psychotherapist living in a little resort town on the shores of Lake Michigan. Additional examples of her work can be seen at: www.johannanauraine.com.