Riding On The Back Of A Motorcycle
The journey always leads home.
Man. The tears are really coming down.
Vroom vroom. My 5-year-old mind cooking fantasies of riding on the back of my Thatha’s motorbike. We would ride across the streets, catching glimpses of poverty. But one more thing: truth.
“Feel the air around you, Ro. Feel the village. This is your home.”
He stepped on the accelerator. It was a side of him I had never seen. He laughed aloud, hair blowing in the wind.
I could feel the sun on my back, and taste the cardamom on his t-shirt. The engine vibrated through my body. This. This is living.
I didn’t want to lose him. My hands on his sweaty back are now trembling. The lines on my forehead have become clearer.
I lost my Thatha two years ago to cancer. It happened in one phone call.
My dad picked it up, and half a minute later, his lips were trembling.
“Rohan…I…I.don’t know…”
“Dad….” I took his hand.
My mother had a forced smile, a mask to her own disbelief.
I often find myself revisiting my own disbelief.
“Ro, I have returned!”
In his hand was a piece of gold: ghee roast. The chutney was dripping down, just as the sweat dripped down his forehead.
He wiped his brow, a hopeful smile on his peaceful face.
“Unaanu.”
It’s a Telugu word meaning ‘I’m here.’
One day, we sat down for dinner. My thatha said: “It’s roti today!” A smile tugged at my lips. Roti meant today was going to be special.
I pulled the chair out. That’s when my thatha said, “Look around you. Rohan. You live in truth. Honesty. Never let that go.”
“Thatha. Will you always be there? You took more than 5 minutes today.”
A tear glistened under his eye.
“Ro…come over here.” He patted his lap.
Eagerly, I ran over. I could feel the veins in his thighs pulsating.
“I will never leave you. Truth will never leave you. Believe in that. Ro. You’re my treasure. I want you to look for truth in this world.”
“You are a seed. I want you to grow into a tree.”
He stroked my chin, and the tears flowed freely.
One day, after his passing, I found a notebook in his room. I turned the page, eyes wide. In it, I found mantras on every page. Chants from the temple he would climb up to. Proverbs written in Telugu, ones he would teach my dad when he was younger.
My chest expanded with pride. But in all that pride, there lay a feeling of loss.
See, I’ve spent my whole life lying. Trying to convince myself Thatha will come back. Fooling myself that things were okay. I don’t know if I will see him again, but I do know this: I am done lying.
I’ve been surrounded by homeless people ever since I was a small child. A byproduct of living in California. I’ve always wondered, “What goes on in their world? Do they want the same things as the rest of us?”
I know my roots. A kid born in India, surrounded by simplicity. Truth.
I just want to carry that forward. I meet people every day. People who get out of bed every day and think “I’m going to lie today.”
Unaanu. It isn’t a lie. Thatha is still with me. He’s still here.
It just ticks me off. Honesty is our biggest strength. It’s what makes us human. People with souls, souls without masks of deceit.
I often come upon places that reek of this feeling.
I visited the supermarket the other day.
The building was bustling with sounds of receipts coming out of machines, words like “I want those chips” and the scent of produce.
I saw a man by the cashier. He had a pleasant smile. He was munching on a taco, salsa dripping down his face.
The cashier’s smile was warm, ‘Hola!’
I was intrigued. Normally, people don’t pay much attention to me.
“Uh…hola.”
He had a receipt hanging out of his pocket, a token of hard work that came from processing so many people’s orders.
“My friend, I come from a generation of Mexicans. I don’t always consider other people, but I try to. I just want there to be more truth in this world. It’s why I work here. To disrupt some of the plain dishonesty.”
“Yeah. Totally. I understand.”
Yeah, I’m still lying. It took me back to dreams of Thatha — dreams of seeing him again.
Dreams are my language of false comfort.
Unaanu. I know in my heart he is still here.
See, my entire life revolves around language. It stems from a place of simplicity.
“Rohan, sit down on that stool in the corner of the room. I’m gonna teach you some Telugu.”
My friend at the supermarket has no idea what Telugu is.
And every single day, I encounter people who treat me like…like I had just arrived on Earth on some UFO.
I needed a moment to myself.
I get back in my car and put on the radio.
It plays Telugu tunes, ones I grew up listening to. Tears stream down my face. Will I ever be more than a lie? Will the people I meet every day see me in a different light? I wasn’t sure.
Unaanu. I don’t know if Thatha will ever return. He has left for the restaurant, and I am not sure he will return this time. But what I do have is myself. Truth will always be inside me, I just have to find it.
I hear lies every day on media. Some are so blatant they make no sense to me.
And then I go back home. I like home. At least I don’t have to lie. Isn’t that what life is? Lies?
I always think back to my friend at the supermarket. He is trying to make a difference. So, I should too. But this world…it is overflowing with lies.
Lies that reach as far as Ukraine. The base of every misfortune is simple: a lie.
I turn on the TV, and am immediately bombarded by videos of Mexicans getting deported. Ukrainians losing virtually everything.
People getting forced into planes. Families getting torn apart.
My friend working at the supermarket, trust me, I get it.
And so my days go on. Pushing myself to see what others are going through. Because that’s the start of change. That’s where my life starts transforming.
I am a piece of produce lying somewhere in that supermarket. Unassuming, waiting. Unwilling to go out and see the world. But I came from a tree. And when someone spits out that seed, when someone spits me out, I will grow again.
Unaanu. Those are my roots. The assurance of a man who would always be there, a friend who’s companionship transcends dishonesty. It is more than pretense.
It is the biggest truth of my life.
Will he always be there?
So I revisit the supermarket. This time, I am armed. I know I will be a tree someday.
Seeds? I was you once. But I will never be you again.
My friend says the same thing: “Hola, my friend!” He has the same smile on his face.
But this time…this time I reply, “No. I don’t get what you are saying. But I will try. Can I have your number?”
Walking through the supermarket, I find myself surrounded by produce. All waiting, all unwilling. I can’t change anyone. What I can change is myself.
“My friend! Where are you headed?”
I must have a smile on my face, because damn am I happy.
I made eye contact with him. My breathing came more easily.
“I…I know now. I know!”
“Que? Qué quieres decir?”
I decide that I am done dabbling with masks. I am done walking.
I start walking briskly. It turns into a jog. Half a minute later, I am sprinting. I put on some Telugu tunes, ones that take me back to that stool in my grandmother’s kitchen.
People stare. Glancing around, I realize I am in a mall. There are cashiers everywhere, people pushing carts. And all around, the stench of dishonesty threatens to make me puke. The feeling of being watched by the security cameras, the forced smile of workers….it didn’t feel right.
I realized that life can be made a truth. If I try to touch everyone I meet…make some sort of impact on their life…maybe life doesn’t have to be a lie.
At this point, the supermarket has become something of a regular visit for me. I get in my car and drive.
The streets are lined with tents, graffiti, and litter.
The tents were covered in smoke — weed blowing from a poor man’s cigar.
They were positioned awry, with no clear direction.
They mirror my life, a cluttered mess looking for truth.
On the way, I catch sight of a homeless man. He had one board in his hand, saying, “I don’t need money. I don’t need shelter. Give me truth.”
He was covered in rags. His face was weathered.
I slammed the brakes. The tears started coming down. I was consumed by a rush of emotion. I got out of my car and went over to talk to the man.
He had a smile on his face. “Truth, aren’t you? You’re truth?”
I was confused. What did he mean? Me? How can I be “truth?”
Images flashed through my mind: the cashier’s surprised smile, the hesitant ‘hola,’ and the desire to connect.
And then I realized. I thought about the man at the supermarket. The conversations we had. This homeless man…he meant I had it in me to make a difference.
I folded my hands and said, “Namaste.”
My hands trembled as I approached him. ‘I’ve been living a lie,’ I confessed to this stranger. ‘I pretend to know languages I don’t. I pretend to be someone I’m not.’”
He didn’t laugh or judge. He simply nodded and said, ‘Then today is your first real day alive.’
I took out ten dollars and grasped his hand. “Here, my friend. If we must find truth, it starts here.”
I knew that moment would change me. I will never lie. To myself, to others.
I will forever remember my friend at the supermarket. I will always think back on how one person changed the way I live.
At first, I lied. I lied to seem friendly. Then, I started to see that life is not a lie. Now? Now I live a truth.
Visions of sitting in my grandmother’s house keep coming back to me. That’s where my life started. It started in a place of truth. And you better be sure it will end in truth.
Whenever I see a homeless man, I see that man with his board. I see the impact he has made on me.
If I didn’t meet him, my life truly would not be the same.
Roots. It’s where we all come from. We all come from truth. But what I found that day on the side of a road? It meant I am truth.
And truth transcends the shit we say. The lies we spit out.
We must stride through a life filled with truth. Going to bed tonight, I still think of that grocery store. The sidewalk on a street of opportunity.
My thoughts are filled with reflection.
“Lies? I am no longer you. And you will never consume me again. Ever.”
We must have our head high in this life. Making a real effort to connect with the people we meet. I know that the word ‘lie’ is now stamped out of my vocabulary.
I am now a full-grown tree. Nothing can take away from the truth that I have become.
Unaanu. I feel my Thatha in the air, everywhere I go. The man in the supermarket, the homeless man, the news on the TV. I may never be a complete truth. But one thing I know for sure is that Thatha will live on.
I visit my younger cousin every week. This time, I showed him my motorbike. His eyes were wide with wonder. He got on my back and I pressed the accelerator.
We came upon a familiar street.
“My friend! You’re back!”
And I knew who it was.
So…that’s my story. That’s the story of a guy who went to a supermarket, took a drive, and came out transformed.
