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I wouldn't blame someone for assuming that the concept of "true love" was just a myth invented by Hollywood. In the real world, relationships often fail. But my idealism about love, which spills over page upon page of this blog, is grounded in a true story that sweeps across the world, across racial and cultural boundaries. It's the story of how my mother and father met and fell in love.In 1981, my mom was fresh out of her third year at Dalhousie Medical School. Filled with a sense of adventure, she set out for an international summer elective at the King George Medical College in the city of Lucknow, India. After 30 hours of travel, she finally arrived in the city - it was sweltering hot, dirty and crowded. Navigating her way around the college, she bumped into the Chief Resident of Pediatrics, who her directions and invited her to dinner. Feeling uneasy in these new surroundings, she gratefully accepted.
The Chief, who also happened to be my father, felt enamoured with this young woman and was eager to impress. He borrowed money, a scooter and a kurta (a knee-length shirt for men) from his friends. Their date that evening was replete with rich food and conversation, easily blossoming into a summer romance. Three weeks later, my father whisked my mother away on a breathtaking trip through the Himalayas, a vast mountain range that stretches across South Asia. They rode along winding roads by day and slept in small roadside cabins by night. In their own words, they both fell "madly in love".
Despite this, they were faced with a seemingly insurmountable geographic and cultural gulf between them. Neither of their families supported the relationship. When my mom boarded the plane for Canada, she thought she had seen the last of my dad.
Little did she realize that she was dealing with a most stubborn of creatures: a young Indian male, an individual born and bred in a culture that is fixated on the idea of romantic love. Over the next four years, my father wrote two letters to my mother every week, each one brimming with flowery reminiscences of their trip and dreams for their future together. He was inspired by "The Cloud Messenger", the famous poem by Kalidasa, in which a subject of King Kubera (the god of wealth) was banished from his homeland for neglecting his duties. Missing his wife, the subject convinces a passing cloud to carry special messages to her.
Every time my mother began to doubt the practicality of their cross-continental romance, another package would arrive from her own Cloud Messenger and assuage her concerns.
In 1985, my mom and dad married one another in a traditional Indian wedding outside of New Delhi. It was a classic Indian production, replete with vibrant decorations, hundreds of guests, a dazzling variety of foods and even a white horse to carry away the bride and groom. The strength of their connection had overcome the reservations of their families , who in the end celebrated the wedding.
Soon after, my parents settled in the remote mountain town of Pauri, providing healthcare to the poor. They faced incredible challenges, including an earthquake that killed thousands. My earliest memories were forged in these mountains. I remember bathing on my front porch in a tiny blue tub with snow-capped peaks as my view, and eating hot roti bread fresh off the stove. While life may have been difficult for my parents, it was thrilling for my 3-year-old self.
Twenty-five years later, my parents still share a cup of tea every morning over wide-ranging philosophical conversations. They plan to move back to the Himalayas after they retire, to serve the poor once again. While their lives have been unpredictable, one thing has always been certain: Their bond is unbreakable.
Being a witness to this story has convinced me that true love is achievable, but that it requires effort and some degree of risk. As I move through my twenties, I can't help but wonder if I'll be so lucky as my parents ... or whether I'll end up a lonely bachelor who collects stamps and drinks his tea in the company of his cat.
I'm going to press "Publish" now and send this post off into the clouds.
Despite this, they were faced with a seemingly insurmountable geographic and cultural gulf between them. Neither of their families supported the relationship. When my mom boarded the plane for Canada, she thought she had seen the last of my dad.
Little did she realize that she was dealing with a most stubborn of creatures: a young Indian male, an individual born and bred in a culture that is fixated on the idea of romantic love. Over the next four years, my father wrote two letters to my mother every week, each one brimming with flowery reminiscences of their trip and dreams for their future together. He was inspired by "The Cloud Messenger", the famous poem by Kalidasa, in which a subject of King Kubera (the god of wealth) was banished from his homeland for neglecting his duties. Missing his wife, the subject convinces a passing cloud to carry special messages to her.
Every time my mother began to doubt the practicality of their cross-continental romance, another package would arrive from her own Cloud Messenger and assuage her concerns.
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| On the banks of the River Ganges. |
Soon after, my parents settled in the remote mountain town of Pauri, providing healthcare to the poor. They faced incredible challenges, including an earthquake that killed thousands. My earliest memories were forged in these mountains. I remember bathing on my front porch in a tiny blue tub with snow-capped peaks as my view, and eating hot roti bread fresh off the stove. While life may have been difficult for my parents, it was thrilling for my 3-year-old self.
Twenty-five years later, my parents still share a cup of tea every morning over wide-ranging philosophical conversations. They plan to move back to the Himalayas after they retire, to serve the poor once again. While their lives have been unpredictable, one thing has always been certain: Their bond is unbreakable.
Being a witness to this story has convinced me that true love is achievable, but that it requires effort and some degree of risk. As I move through my twenties, I can't help but wonder if I'll be so lucky as my parents ... or whether I'll end up a lonely bachelor who collects stamps and drinks his tea in the company of his cat.
I'm going to press "Publish" now and send this post off into the clouds.
