Short Story:  “Uncle” to All My Daughters

Parthiv N. Parekh takes us to the periphery of ageism as the story hops on either side before concluding.

As I stood, seventh in line, at that busy Starbucks location in Mumbai, I marveled at how easy it was to lose my bearings and think I had just stepped into one of these stores near my home in suburban America—the same lateral layout, the same green aprons of the staff, and the identical counters displaying the all-too-familiar scones, croissants, and savories. Only a couple of offerings, such as the Tandoori Paneer sandwich and the Murgh Kathi roll, served as reminders that I was in India. Oh, and not to mention that just outside the glass doors behind me was all of India—in your face: the mad cacophony of late afternoon traffic, made up of a chaotic mix of bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, rickshaws, commercial vans (that looked imposing on tiny streets), cars, taxis, and a sea of pedestrians on the road and the footpaths. 

I mused about how I appreciated both the tranquility of my hometown on the outskirts of Atlanta, with its forest-like parks featuring pristine landscapes that look as though they have never been touched by human civilization (if not for the telltale wooden walkway cutting through the marshland)—and the intense, high-pitched energy of Mumbai’s bustling street scene. It’s interesting how a hadsa can invoke the philosopher in one, as I contemplated how serenity, solitude, and silence, along with the dynamic exuberance of controlled chaos and crowds, can serve as the ida and pingala of prana that is said to be so crucial for balance and sanity.