When I first landed in Arlington, it was winter. I was lost again. Not so much for the chaos, rather for its absence. No people to talk to. No car. No intimate conversations. Not even a credit card. It was like walking into a nameless Calcutta street without people ? try and imagine that!
Now, summer had finally arrived. As if an artist was finishing the last details of a large canvas — the dim sketch lines of which were already etched in spring. With each new stroke the barren trees filled up with foliage. Tiny dashes of pink, red and yellow tulips sprang from the ground in a peculiarly organized manner. Tender grass screamed on front lawns which lay hidden under the blanket of mother snow during the long days of winter.
Along with the change in the air the land had filled with people.
In the afternoons, middle-aged girls lazed on crockey easy chairs on raised front lawns tanning in the shiny skies. Guy folks perched on the parapet walls of open terraces sipping ‘Guiness’ and fiddling with smoky bar-be-cues. You could hear them guffawing with broken laughter. Although the local ‘Steamers’ were loosing the ball game on Sunday night there were other interesting things to talk about ? like the adventures at a gambling casino in Las Vegas or going ice fishing in Alaska. On the side-walk, the elderly took long paced walks along with their loyal dogs. Sometimes they were outpaced by children in little toy scooters and giggling teens racing on roller blades. Little children who dreamt of becoming rich during the vacation sold unadulterated lemonades in front of their homes for only 10 cents. I bought many drinks here because it gave me some sense of joy to see cute smiles on determined faces.
|
…I wondered how long the journey had taken me….
The ‘Arlington Tribune’ flashed images of summer festival events (besides images of suitable women with toll free numbers). Curiosity coupled with loneliness drove me (rather) to the Italian fest were a pot-bellied Latin singer was flaunting the ‘mambo italiano’ to a crowd that was more interested in quenching drought beer. There was so much of a relaxed look in their faces: the patterned tattoos, designer ear rings and sporty bandanas that it all looked like a part of a large ethereal setting. On the far side, little toddlers ran around the park besides a long lagoon which flanked the summer fest grounds. Overhead trolleys carried dinner-plate eyed kids who were waving and hailing at their amused parents below. It was beginning to hit me during that June that a new found freedom was in the air.
The sun was slowly dipping and the Latino music disappeared behind me as I walked through the long promenade of the art museum. Water fountains glowed through the glistening of walk-way lights and I wondered how long the journey had taken me. Far behind the profile of the art museum, silhouettes of church spires pierced the dark orange skies and a momentary reminder of why I had skipped this Sunday’s mass. Not that my spiritualism was waning, but that perhaps it was finding a new meaning.
Ms. Pinto, my school teacher in Mangalore, had once asked our class what we wanted to become when we were big.
“A doctor.” “No, me an astronaut.” “Me a football player;” my friends had gleefully thrown up their hands.
When my turn came, Ms. Pinto?s jaw dropped.
I wanted to become a saint!
“How in the world did you think of that?” she asked with a wry smile.
That did not baffle me. During that time, becoming a saint was not a fantasy. It was a vocation. After reading the tiny illustrative ‘Saint for each day’ which my ‘priest uncle’ had presented on my seventh birthday, I wondered at the nicety of miracles that St. Francis of Assisi had at his disposal and the perverse prospect of making God my cosmic bellboy!
In those ‘sainterly’ days, I once saw, what I thought to be a vision of heaven on my aluminum school box — like a floating castle made of blue, green and little red roof tops. I had always yearned to go there. Yet, it was a foregone conclusion that my power stretched to no more than saying ‘Our father in heaven.’ This I did diligently. Chanting grace everywhere: during brush time, when my mom parted my hair before school (often hurting my jaw), while picking cherries and throwing stones at the roadside mango trees on the way to school. And of course, my prayers became more feverish just before the advent of my grade cards!
Gradually, in my teenage years my saintly ambition seemed to wane. My spirituality was dripping drop-by-drop. The logic was that ‘God is everywhere,’ and so going to church was not so compulsory as my uncle made it appear. Between heaven and hell, I was told ( by the catechism sister) that there was this place called ‘paradise’ for half-baked sinners. That was alright for me, if not comfortable! Most of my leave notes in school read ‘Grandmother died’ which made my teacher wonder how many grandmothers I had. You know, convenient lies were always practical. And when I stole ‘jaggeree’ from my kitchen – well, it did not starve anyone, did it? And finally, what about that last commandment, ‘Love your neighbors,’ which was not always possible to follow, especially when your neighbor kid never passed that cricket bat to you although he lost his wicket in every conceivable way.
Today, looking back, I realize that wanting to become a saint was perhaps a consequence of my childish naivety. Yet, I understand that the quest to try and become something is every child’s dream. Perhaps, in the process of wanting to ‘be,’ we ‘become.’ All these years I was looking for a God ‘out there.’ But here he was within me; silently chasing dreams, teaching me never to take myself for granted, encouraging me on an illusive pilgrimage to learn it the hard way, and always willing to slow me down so that I might appreciate this fast-paced life with a little contemplation.
Author: Newton Dsouza- USA
