Stranded in Space
by Kritika Iyer
Boston University
Kritika Iyer is a student at Boston University studying English and Journalism. She will graduate in May 2024. She has written for several school publications including the school newspaper, The Daily Free Press, Charcoal Magazine, and The Buzz Magazine. She works as an Editor in The Beacon, BU's literary magazine, and has had two poems published in the magazine. Kritika enjoys exploring desire, dreams, and disillusionment in her work, whether through poetry or creative non-fiction.
King Trishanku wanted to ascend to heaven, as most dream-seeking people do. Still a mortal, he wished for his body to be with the Gods; however, still a mortal, naïve and unlearned, he was forbidden. In his distress, he begged any Sages to help him. One Sage performed this sacrifice, but as Trishanku approached Heaven, the Gods blocked his entry, instead sending him into the depths of the earth. The Sage halted this descent in mid-air, suspending him halfway between heaven and Earth, stranded in space among the Saptarishis, the seven glowing sages. My dad tells me this story whenever I point out the Big Dipper. He tells me it whenever I stare into space, when he sees my eyes longing and my thoughts becoming displaced. When he sees my body untethering from its station, floating somewhere, lost, feeling erased.
•
“You’re not doing your job as the token Indian friend,” my roommate whines loudly. She’s upset that I never make us Indian food.
“That’s just straight up racist,” I laugh.
We always laugh. She throws her head back, mouth wide open, cackling. I slap her arms and wheeze the grief right out of me.
I cook too much pasta, too much soup, and too many tacos. Not enough rice, curry, or subzi, though she doesn’t even know what subzi is.
“I’d know it if you explained,” I can hear her say.
I’ve explained. I’ve explained roti, naan, tikka, and makhani. And anyway, it wouldn’t be the same. In my sleep, I smell my mom toasting jeera seeds in hot oil. The spices burying themselves behind my eyes. I know if I made any of it, it wouldn’t live up to my mom’s. That’s the excuse I always fall back on.
•
In 1993, at 24 years old, my mom’s job was to move to this country with her expert knowledge of computers but little awareness of anything else. She knew no one here but was excited for this famous dream everyone spoke of back home.
The dream required training—lots of diligent training. Some on computers and workplace software, but most on etiquette.
She was to learn how to keep clean and dress well. My mother was told to straighten her hair—take it out of its oiled and slicked-back braid—so as not to appear greasy and irritate clients with the smell of coconut oil.
There were clothes she couldn’t wear. She’d show up to work in her black floral embroidered salwar kameez, and her boss would say, “Especially like this. Don’t wear this.”
She was to learn how to properly eat. She was told to roll up her rotis in one hand and spoon her subzi into her mouth to appear more digestible.
She was to learn how to blend in. My mother was told to take off her bindi, the target on her face, to put her head down, and do what she was brought to this country to do. What she abandoned her home to do.
•
I was a Bharathnatyam dancer for 12 years, per my parents’ request. I loved the movement but hated the outfit. The jhumka earrings, silk blouses, and bells around my ankles were all too heavy; they weighed me down and tethered me to the Earth. The layers of fabric bloated the outline of my body. They bloated it so much that I had to move twice as hard. Twice as sharp.
Eventually, I found the rhythm. Eventually, all I wanted to do was move and feel the music—to feel my limbs cutting through the air. I wanted to feel blood pumping and motion thrusting me across the stage and into the audience.
I wanted to be a ballerina.
•
At the airport, I sit and stare at a woman weeping. Tears carve white streaks down her tan cheeks, and her eyes are black with grief. She doesn’t know how to get to her gate. No one can understand the language she speaks. An employee translates her gestures, but I know there is so much lost in between.
Up in the air, the people around me are fast asleep, but my mind is stuck on the woman. Was she finally able to speak? Could she, too, rest now, finally steady on her journey? But where do we go when we sleep? Who are the people in our dreams, and how do we finally make them leave? Feeling incomplete and unanswered, I pray the woman makes it to her destination in one piece.
•
It’s 30 years later, and my mother insists she’s at peace. Sometimes she gets into arguments with me and my brother. Sometimes we try to tell her she’s wrong and that she doesn’t know what she believes. She doesn’t need to ball away her home-cooked rotis. Tears fall from her eyes, and we question why she cries over stupid, trivial things. But then I look at her. I see her standing tall, as tall as five-foot-three can be, and I reassure her that in my dreams I don’t see the things she sees. There’s no unattainable destination in my vision. Only myself, journeying, stoic, content to be floating in space.