The morning after we arrived in Hyderabad eight of us boarded a slightly rickety twelve seater minibus for a 100 mile trip to the Narajuna Sagar dam to get to the Krishna river. Because there were no seat belts the kids' car seats stayed in their bag. Even in the light early morning traffic it took us almost an hour to get out of the ugly sprawl of Hyderabad. The ride was bumpy with frequent braking and swerving. Evan slept. Vivian gazed out of the windows at the rugged dry rocky outcrops and groves of palms and tiny dry cotton fields and every once in a while emerald green freshly planted paddy fields. We drove through small settlements with unmarked speed bumps and tractor and pump dealerships and road side coffee and tea shacks and trash. All along the 100 mile stretch there were huge sections of steel pipes being lowered into massive trenches - to bring water from Krishna to an ever thirsty Hyderabad. We passed dozens of workers walking along the highway swinging their glistening stainless steel tiffin lunch boxes making their way to the pipe fabrication facilities. And school children in uniforms in large groups heading to the government schools in the bigger villages. We eat Glunito "oreos" and Michelle's trail mix and snacks that Sahiti had packed for us and wondered how much longer.
When we arrived at the dam we took a lower road down to the river on the downstream side and parked next to a small temple with steps leading down to the water. Dhobis were washing clothes on one side and a brahmin was getting ready for a day's business on the other. Just as we had with my mother's ashes on the opposite bank of the river 11 years ago we had agreed to do this without any formal religious ceremony. Vivian and Evan ran down to the water before us. We took turns and scattered my dad's ashes into the river. I had a hard time letting go the last fistful of ashes into the fast flowing water. The last mortal remains. Long separated from the memory of the living breathing person my dad used to be.
We finished, washed our hands in the river and headed back up. When I caught up with Vivian she asked me if her card was in the ashes. She had made a card for my dad and we had placed it on his casket at the crematorium back in Austin in August. Along with my dad's boutonniere from our wedding nine years ago that he had lovingly left by my mother's photo at our home in Austin - dry but perfectly preserved for all those years. I nodded, her face swimming in my tears. She squeezed my hand and softly said "goodbye Grandpa" and ran up the steps to race Evan to the top.
When we arrived at the dam we took a lower road down to the river on the downstream side and parked next to a small temple with steps leading down to the water. Dhobis were washing clothes on one side and a brahmin was getting ready for a day's business on the other. Just as we had with my mother's ashes on the opposite bank of the river 11 years ago we had agreed to do this without any formal religious ceremony. Vivian and Evan ran down to the water before us. We took turns and scattered my dad's ashes into the river. I had a hard time letting go the last fistful of ashes into the fast flowing water. The last mortal remains. Long separated from the memory of the living breathing person my dad used to be.
We finished, washed our hands in the river and headed back up. When I caught up with Vivian she asked me if her card was in the ashes. She had made a card for my dad and we had placed it on his casket at the crematorium back in Austin in August. Along with my dad's boutonniere from our wedding nine years ago that he had lovingly left by my mother's photo at our home in Austin - dry but perfectly preserved for all those years. I nodded, her face swimming in my tears. She squeezed my hand and softly said "goodbye Grandpa" and ran up the steps to race Evan to the top.
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