An Excerpt from BOOK ONE
The Immigrant Wife: Her Spiritual Journey
From Chapter 17, pp. 99-101
Disappointed, she turned to leave the room.
“Wait,” her father said, his tone serious. “Wait until I settle down.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. She wanted to run and hug him, but she stood where she
was. “Take your time, Bubb. It’ll take me awhile to draw you.” She sat cross-legged on the
floor and watched him settle in.
With the concentration and skill of an artist, Bubb prepared his hookah, unwrapping
freshly bought tobacco, its aroma as intense as the smell of earth after a rain. He took out a
bit of tobacco and pressed it into an almond shape between his dry palms before placing it in
the terra-cotta chillum, the pipe attached to the hookah. With tiny tongs, he picked up hot
coals from the kangri and placed them on top of the tobacco.
He took a long puff of smoke with his eyes closed. Satisfied, he said, “Now if you are
ready, you can make my picture.” He took a few more puffs. The coal lit up and the hookah
gurgled.
Nervously, Shanti drew a few lines into a rough sketch. The sketching warmed up her
fingers. She began her final drawing, the only things she saw were Bubb and her drawing
pad; everything else was a blur.
She drew Bubb’s facial muscles, bushy eyebrows, narrow-set eyes, long nose, and finely
shaped lips. His long fingers and veins on the backs of his hands contrasted with the
voluminous folds of his pheran. With a careful and critical eye, Shanti drew the outline of his
body, shading the dark areas and leaving the lightest white with faint, crisscrossed lines.
Slowly, the picture of Bubb smoking his hookah emerged. Professor Chaudhari would be
proud!
As Shanti finished, Gaurav walked into the room. Seeing Shanti and Bubb alone
together, he halted.
“Look, Bhaiya!” Shanti called out. She stood up and handed her drawing to him.
Her brother looked at it and said, “Great job, Shanti!” He pointed towards Bubb and
her, “How did this happen? When did he agree? This drawing is as good as seeing you two
back together.”
Bubb gave a faint grin.
“Art overcomes all wars.” Shanti winked at her brother the way he usually did to her.
“When are you going to make my portrait?” Gaurav said.
“When you wear a pheran and smoke a hookah,” she teased.
“In that case, you just lost a model,” he joked. “You’d better stick with drawing Bubb.”
He winked, picked up something from his desk, bid them goodnight, and left. Bubb resettled
in his favorite corner and took a long puff.
“Don’t you want to see your picture?” Shanti said.
“If you insist,” he said.
Shanti handed the pad to Bubb, who sat up. “Would you hand me my reading glasses?”
he said, pointing to the bookshelf.
Shanti handed him the glasses and he put them on, adjusting the handles behind his
ears. He examined the drawing, then took off his glasses and looked away for a moment.
Then giving the drawing pad back to Shanti, he said, “Kuri, daughter, Sarasvati Divi has
favored you. Come what may, do not disregard her blessings.”
“I won’t, Bubb.”
“Do you know why Divi Sarasvati is worthy of your attention?” Bubb asked, narrowing
his eyes.
“She is the goddess of arts and sciences.”
“Yes, Kuri she is that, and also flow of creativity and imagination. She is boundless and
expansive as the sky. She is an invisible stream deep within all of us. She is the inspiration
and insight of poets and painters who soar to great heights through their work – so can you.
Remember this!”
“I’ll remember, Bubb.” Shanti’s eyes welled with tears.
*****
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