Uncle Jonas

My favorite great-uncle died today. He was my grandmother's brother, my dad's uncle, and I hadn't seen him in 14 years. He was sick from Kidney failure and had to do dialysis 3x/wk so I know there is some kind of relief in his passing. Still, I am devastated. He was charming, irreverant and so much fun. He was kind and adoring, and the type of man anyone would want for a father or grandfather.....I enjoyed him immensly as an uncle. He was unafraid to be silly, and usually had us laughing till it hurt. What I loved also about him were the endless stories of my dad he could tell. A dad I really only got to know by other's memories and recollections of him. I am sure Uncle Jonas's illness probaby muted his personality, (as much as a foghorn can be muted and fireworks muffled) and so I will appreciate that my memories of him are of him at his best. But it seems too soon. I am not ready to say goodbye.

On Father's day, just two days ago, my parents brought over their pictures of their recent trip to India. There were so many images that stirred up wonderful memories for me and made me so anxious to go back. It was the photos of Uncle Jonas that touched me the most though. My mom just kept saying how like Grandma he was, and I kept thinking about how much I couldn't wait to take my family there one day and introduce them to him. Two days later, he is gone. I'm not sure my grief is quite appropriate for a man for whom I can count the time spent with in weeks. However perhaps the sorrow stems from the the reality that the Indian family I have is slowly disintegrating. Fading away. I am desperate not to lose this vital piece of myself. My Grandfather died before I ever met him. My Grandma is gone, as well as her sister and now brother. There are only two of her sisters left, one here and one still in India. My father was taken in my youth (and his), as was his brother. Of their other two siblings, one is far away and removed from the daily going-ons of family life here, the other is still in Calgary thankfully. I really felt the lack of their presence at our wedding last year, and it was the only thing that marred an otherwise exceptionally beautiful and perfect day.

I am hardly Indian by most people's standards. I am barely recognizable as such and am often mistaken for Italian, Portugese, Gypsy or Scallywag, not Indian. I speak fluent French, not Hindi or Tamil. Our family is Christian, not Muslim or Hindu or Sikh or Brahmin. I have not one piercing in either of my ears let alone nose. I don't watch Indian movies, nor do I listen to indian music. (Does Ravi Shankar count?) I am just now learning how to cook some of the dishes I love, and I can barely put on a sari, and not ever in a way that would achieve my Grandmothers high standards. My only claim to Indian culture might be: A) my ability to pack away the gulab jamuns like cops with timbits, and B) my deep admiration for the comedy stylings of Russell Peters whose recollections of growing up Indian in Canada with a white person's name ring very true. (Did I forget to mention I am decently adept at eating Indian food with my fingers?) These are trifles. I cannot bear the thought of my children and their children having no understanding of where they come from. My dad would have been so proud of Thyra, and yet to the passer-by they would have never appeared to have come from the same blood. She is a white child with only 1/4 Indian blood in her, which is only hinted at by the ease in which she tans. I have come to appreciate the time Thyra spends with Auntie June or Uncle George or Hilda and Kumar, because I feel this is the only way she will get to know who she is.... by knowing what and where she has come from.

So tonight I will send love and prayers across thousands of miles of ocean to a place that feels like home to me, to the family I love there that is mourning a loss that I know they feel far more keenly than I.