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9 An Indian Kitchen in Kansas T hough issues of theology, even before Swami’s visit, always teased at the edges of my mind, by second grade, I was often in a world of fantasy. I knew what reality was, sure, but I preferred daydreams: pleasant ones about flying a one-girl aircraft I called a hover around the neighborhood. I’d kick the dirt and scuff the grass on the way home, but my thoughts were not earthbound. My childhood home was a ranch-style yellow clapboard with a band of light red brick about three feet high across the front. It sat about five blocks from my grade school in the middle of the block among other such houses, some blue clapboard, some red brick, and it was right next to Morris and Mabel’s place. Walking home, I was lost in my hover vision, coasting around with my friends, flying free over the fields behind our house, but I sensed Morris, whom I considered my American grandfather, sitting conspicuously in his green mesh folding chair outside his side door at 3:15. He always timed it so. In India, a grandfather was a serious responsibility. You listened well to a grandfather. You gave him respect and brought him sweets should there be any in the kitchen. So even though I was more interested in an after-school snack for myself, I came back to earth from my daydream and walked over. “What’s going on today?” Morris called, dropping the newspaper he was reading onto his lap. An Indian Kitchen in Kansas 69 I went the twenty or so steps to his porch and plopped down. Morris wore baggy, pleated trousers with a thin black belt, a soft plaid button-up shortsleeve cotton shirt, and black loafers. His bristling gray eyebrows tufted above blue eyes and black-rimmed glasses. I liked it best when we sat outside. There was always a car to watch going by, the college band to hear in the nearby field, or robins to entertain us. I flopped on the porch and tossed my bag on the ground. I slouched. When we were inside, I hummed to myself between the times Morris spoke, and when he did I answered quickly. I sat straight in the armchair. I invariably began to compare the difference in the sizes of my thumbnails. I fidgeted and tried to figure out a way to say I had to go home without being rude. I decided somewhere along the way that because he and Mabel never had children, they didn’t learn to speak very quickly, not having to keep up with a darting child passing through the kitchen or running over the porch on the way to a bike. I did not bring anything edifying to the conversation, but I had adopted Morris and he had adopted me, and so I visited. Even then I knew there was a whole world of experience he never mentioned. I think he knew about my daydreams. In Mrs. Pistole’s second grade, I spent hours of class gazing out of the window. I perfected a stare trained on the teacher, but fuzzy, so the sky was clear and foremost in my mind. I stayed in my inner vision until someone pulled me out. When the teacher called on me, my eyes sharpened, another side of my brain kicked in, and I answered correctly every time. I won a giant chocolate bar because I answered all the math questions first. I shared the bar with the class and went back to thinking about clouds. I kept up pretty well for someone thinking two sets of thoughts and, mostly, no one noticed. Clouds were important because in my daydream I usually piloted a bright yellow hover and the yellow looked so vibrant against blue fluff. Sometimes I chose the red or royal blue hover models from the garage. My friends and I flew around in them, even over the fields behind my house, and visited the spooky pond and old house with a junk pile around it in the darkly wooded back copse. I was an A student, but after a year of this I was getting Cs in spelling. Third grade teacher Mrs. Phillips: “It is understandable why Nina is having trouble spelling in English, with your two languages at home.” My mother, turning her head slightly to me, narrowing her eyes: “Yes, we’ll work on that.” [18.220.106.241...

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