The weekend I held two worlds

 The long weekend of Memorial Day was long awaited.

Things were still stiff between me and Harsha. He was fried from work. I was fried from an unsatisfied life. He asked me to find somewhere to travel—just to take his mind off things. But before I could think of anything, he wrangled a spot at Lassen. A coveted log cabin in a national park, two weeks before travel.

Almost never possible.

We got it: Sunday through Tuesday morning. Three days, two nights.

The kids exploded with excitement the moment we told them. For two full weeks, they kept asking if we could leave sooner, stay longer. Vicky was especially adamant—at least a week, he declared. They both started assembling their nature kits: tracking lists, books, binoculars, magnifying glass, compass, survival sets, all the odds and ends. Vicky even packed his ranger vest and cap like a small officer heading into the wilderness.

But even as we packed, a shadow stretched across the ocean.

Tatayya gave us a scare. He hadn't been eating well, and nearly stopped fluid intake altogether. He resisted everything—even his favorites: mango, pulihara, avakaya. Not even coffee. Watching him through the camera from my living room, I saw a skeleton with sunken eyeballs. It was hard to look, harder to look away.

Pavan flew to help Amma. I watched over the video feed, talking to her, to Tatayya, to him. But underneath every word was guilt. I had been there just five months ago. He had deteriorated so much since then. I almost thought his end was near.

I felt like a vulture watching him over the camera.

I was torn in half. Do I book an expensive flight to India, be there for Amma? Or do I travel with my kids, create their childhood memories? The tickets were crushing. And the car trip wasn't a one-adult show—not with our two monkeys.

Then I saw Harsha's face. His face dropped when he saw my grandfather on video. Dropped even more as he heard me mulling over India versus the park. He saw his own beloved late grandfather in mine. He didn't have the heart to dissuade me from going, nor the heart to put his foot down for the park. He left it to me, making stoic plans for either decision.

Amma took a call. They were going to insert a stomach feeding tube for Tatayya. They did the operation. That night, for the first time in over a week, Amma got some rest.

Then the phone rang. Tatayya had pulled the tube out at night. Amma had a intense conversation. He had to be fed, but he wasn't cooperating. I knew any decision was not mine. I voted to give tatayya the dignity of deciding whether he will agree to feed or fast to the more painful end, for him and all of us. 

After a lot of talking, he petulantly agreed to eat the normal way again. Pavan returned to Dubai, where Sindhu and Niru were waiting for the 2nd birthday party finalizing. Nalini left with their family to Japan. And I left for Lassen with Harsha and the kids—some routine reprieve in our lives.

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The Park

Snow-peaked Shasta and Lassen were breathtaking, leaving us speechless in their magnificence. The utter lack of network helped us focus on the present and take in the wonders of nature. We went on trails, went boating, explored volcano lava tubes. The last night of our trip, we started a campfire, shared stories and smores around, staying up late with the kids. We found sulfur springs with gas bubbling right out of the ground.

The log cabin was wonderful—enough space to have seven people sleep comfortably. We tucked into our sleeping bags, forgetting about baths for three days.

Whenever we touched a spot with internet, I sent a short message to Mom asking after Tatayya. I'd read her reply when I got internet again later.

The kids were over the moon—taking photos, writing in their junior ranger books. On our last day, we even saw snowfall. It was good thing we had the campfire the night before,  everything was soft and wet. There was a hailstorm on the road, rainbows in the sky, snow dusted trees on sharp jagged peaks.

By the time we left, our hearts felt lighter. And I felt a little thaw with Harsha.

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Afterword

We came home with photos of volcanoes and pine trees, of Vicky in his ranger vest, of ordinary laughter. Tatayya was still there, still fragile. Amma was still exhausted. The camera was still on.

But for three days and two nights, we had some routine reprieve. Not healing. Not resolution. Just a small breath between two impossible loves.

And that—snowmelt and all—was enough.