Her thick, straight, jet-black hair was a gift of her Thai genes, and she was grateful to her birth parents for it, whoever they were. When India was younger she would search her own facial features in the mirror to piece together what they looked like, and wondered where they lived, and if they ever missed her. She did it only rarely. Not often enough to feel like she was betraying her mother, but just enough to bring awareness to the people who’d brought her into the world.
At sixteen India had finally asked her mother if she had any records that told India something, anything. But keeping true to her nature, Tara Dashwood had saved none of the paperwork. It didn’t matter. India loved her mother more than words could describe. A mother who drowned her children in love, who drowned anyone and anything that crossed her path in love, was hard to not love. Growing up, India remembered not a word of criticism, nor a harsh experience of any sort. Her childhood had been suffused with the sweet scent of incense, the soothing sounds of chanting, and the warmth of being wrapped up in hugs and unconditional acceptance.
If a serious illness ever befell India or her two siblings (an eventuality Tara never foresaw, because: yoga!), they’d have no idea if it was genetic predisposition. Because Tara had adopted children from three countries with an equal disregard for parental history for all three.
The kettle whistled and India poured herself a cup of hot water and took it back to the balcony, and finally checked her cell phone. Her mother used technology as little as possible, but as expected, there were missed calls and a string of texts from India’s sister, China. Their brother, Siddhartha, hadn’t checked in, but that wasn’t surprising either. He was off photographing birds-of-paradise in Papua New Guinea, and as Sid loved to say, a cell signal and birds worth photographing didn’t go together.
Instead of reading through her texts, India called China. Wi-Fi calling meant international calls wouldn’t bankrupt her. These retreats did make more money in a week than a month’s worth of classes at their studio in Palo Alto, but she needed every cent to pay the mountainous debt from recent renovations to her family’s studio.
“India!” China always answered calls with your name, as though you had to be reminded that caller ID existed.
“China!” India said, mirroring her tone, and couldn’t hold back the smile that split her face. “All well? Is the studio still standing?”
China was the one who had goaded India into doing the retreats, because India had never shown any interest in leaving the studio. She loved Palo Alto, loved the studio and their apartment above it that she shared with Tara and China. What was the reason to ever leave? But they’d recently had to renovate the studio because parts of the structure had become hazardous, and renovations in Palo Alto basically cost more than a small Greek island. The reason India knew this was because Sid had checked the prices and suggested they buy the island instead of renovating.
“Actually, the studio’s crumbled to the ground. It refused to stay standing without you holding it up on your tiny but mighty shoulders.” China enjoyed teasing India, but between how little China cared about anything but her work (which was not teaching yoga or taking care of the family incense business, thank you very much) and the fact that their mother hadn’t been her usual energetic self recently and had been forgetting little things like turning off the stove and locking up, India’s fear was not entirely unjustified.
“And the classes are going well?” India asked. She couldn’t wait to get back to her students. Their mother’s style of instruction catered to students who were more interested in loving themselves than pushing themselves. This was the point of yoga, obviously, but the point was also growth. Every mind and body was stronger than it believed. And, in Palo Alto—the chosen home of so many tech billionaires—India had learned to braid together self-love with growth so it best benefitted her clients.
“No, Mom and Tomas suddenly forgot how to teach with you gone,” China said, sounding cheeky enough, but something was off in her tone. India could tell that China’s brain had already moved on to the next thing. “I do miss you, though,” she added, voice suddenly wobbly.
“Something wrong, Cee?” India was instantly in big-sister mode. Even though China was almost thirty, India would always be three years older. Every time China sounded like something was bothering her, it would always take India instantly back to when China was a toddler who woke up in the middle of the night needing to be held.
Instead of answering, her sister let out a sob.
Worry rolled through India, even as she listened carefully to determine if there was any real cause for alarm. “It’s going to be okay. Are you alone? Is it work? Is it Song?” China was equally passionate about her family, her work, the weather, their pug, her new girlfriend.
“Do you believe it’s possible to burst with love?”
India relaxed and took a sip of her hot water, a relieved smile nudging at her lips. “You mean physically, like a balloon popping? I’ve never actually heard of a case where that happened.”
“Funny. But I don’t expect you to understand. It’s just . . . it’s just . . . I’m just filled all the way up, you know? Like my feelings for her are pushing against my skin in every part of me. Even the tips of my fingers tingle with it, India!”
India dropped into the circular chair bed overlooking the ocean and crossed her legs. “You’re adorable, Cee.”
“I am, right? So, it’s not strange that someone as perfect as Song likes me?”
“You’re the one who’s perfect here,” India said, making sure China knew she meant it. If they had to play the who’s-luckier game, anyone who earned her sister’s love was the lucky one. “Has Song decided to stay back?” India tried not to sound worried but she wasn’t sure she succeeded.
China had recently started seeing Song Ji Woo, who was a famous Korean actor. China was a producer at the Food Network and Song had been a contestant on China’s TV show last season. Problem was, Song had moved to the U.S. only for the show. Just like her choice to be addressed by her last name instead of her first name, being here was a temporary thing she was escaping into. Her life and work were back in South Korea. To say nothing of the fact that Song was quite firmly in the closet and China had been out and proud her whole life.
“Why does that matter?” China tried not to snap, India knew that, but keeping her emotions tempered had never been her sister’s strong suit.
How could it not matter? If the person you were giving your love and trust to wasn’t interested in giving you theirs, how could that not matter? There was no way to ask China that without sounding disapproving of this great love she was experiencing. So, instead, India said, “It only matters if it matters to you.”
“I knew you’d do this. How can you of all people not understand that if you love someone, you love someone. It can’t be conditional on what they can give you in return. It’s the journey, not a destination. Isn’t that what you spend your days teaching people?”
Sure, life, like yoga, was a practice. You stayed in the moment. Lived it with mindful actions. That was the only way to experience it fully and do it justice. That didn’t mean you jumped off a cliff onto rocks just to know how that felt.