Every day that I wake up ready to face my academic challenges and the biting cold of Boston, a parallel version of myself awakens in India. Amongst the charming in its own right, the grayscale color palette of Boston in the winter, bits of nostalgia are hard to come by. Yet, when they manifest, they do so in shades of red and gold.

Minuscule flashes of these colors send me reeling within the confines of my memory. Dreams cast in vermillion, senses on fire, I return in glimpses.

 The bright red of my mother’s nail polish is emphasised by the bold swirls and rusty pigment of the henna adorning her skin, the intricate details that come into focus as her hand nears my face. I find myself sitting cross-legged in the seat next to her; she tuts as she moves my perpetually unruly adolescent hair out of my face. My stomach is full, but she comes back with another bite of rice. She feeds me by hand, a generational act of intimacy and unconditional love, a capsule of tradition and maternal affection, reflected at me. Mirrored in the glassy depth of my mother’s eyes, I see her mother. I hold the understanding that this instant, this gesture extends far beyond my mother and me, and I am full of something else entirely – a moment shrouded in gold. I open my mouth for another bite.

The icy cold wind of Boston on my walk to class is unmistakable; I am shoved several times, shaken from my daze. The warm amber lighting fades into grayscale once more. As the temperature drops, the people seem to follow suit, their demeanour growing colder as if on a corresponding meteorological clock. I look around, people rushing off in every direction, covered from head to toe in monotonous shades of blacks and greys, eyes obstructed. A sense of loneliness and disconnect permeates the air. I wonder if I too will find my place here eventually, filing within the disconnect, picturing myself as another hustling body in the frigid cold, as impatient as the next. It’s a glimpse of a red coat that sends me back. 

I find myself seeking comfort within my memories; The sun is warm as it fills up the room. Everything here is warm, devoid of even an ounce of fluorescent white light. I wonder where the notion of “poor lighting” being warm came from in the first place, for light has never seemed so rich as the yellow hue emanating from the lamp that is bathing my mother in a glow as she centers her bindi, a red coloured dot symbolizing energy and the presence of the third eye. Concentration graces her beautiful face. To me, this light paints a vision of luxury and richness actualized. The air smells of cardamom, and the sweet inflection of the Bengali lyrics are flowing through the TV, the sitar music punctuated by gong vibrations. In hues of orange, rich brown, and gold, I reside comfortably. All of my senses are warm. I don’t see black when I close my eyes, but the sun warming my eyelids, even when I blink, is in brilliant red. 

The line seems to go on forever; my breath greets me in a milky display of the freezing temperatures around me. I look at my hands, cracked from the cold. My bronze complexion sticks out under the white fluorescent lights. I find myself suddenly aware of the discolouration on my knuckles at this moment. What a silly sentiment. I open my palm, turning it to my face, viewing my hand in a new light of unfamiliar distaste. I resent the light for no apparent reason. A lingering feeling of discomfort within myself remains as I take my cup of coffee from the irritable barista; my weak smile fades into a genuine one, the warmth reaching within me. I start to fade into the mechanical whir and hum of the generator.

Cross-legged I sit by my father; the vibrational hum of his prayers course through me as I exercise all of my restraint to stay still. I imitate his posture and body language, trying to focus on the rhythmic mantras. My eyes flicker to each adornment on the shrine before me, the flowers and colours spanning the mantle, oranges, and greens. The warmth of the lamp soothes me; I watch the wick of the candle as it submerges in golden oil. I close my eyes and lean into the blessing my father gives me at the end; the warmth comes from within this time. It burns warmer as the sweet familiar taste of my father’s chai graces my tongue. I hold on to this moment tighter, not wanting to let go. All of a sudden, beyond content to sit here in silence with him, in tight watery blinks of fading orange, I let go and brace myself for the grey’s return.

I still feel the residual presence of my father’s hands on my head as the freezing rain outside my window grows audibly heavier. My stomach grumbles, and I try not to think of home-cooked food; rather, I remind myself of the budget for the week. My stomach growls louder; I resent it as much as I resent knowing I lack what it takes to satiate the pit at this moment. As I reopen my laptop, I am met with a different kind of hunger. This hunger reminds me of why I’m here – ambition, responsibility, and drive flood me in a familiar wave of obligation. The clacking of my keys becomes rhythmic, as my vision grows blurrier. 

The chime of the bells on my golden anklet is muted once I slide my foot into my sneakers; I frown disappointingly. Clutching the flyer in my hands, I return to my dresser just to put Jhumkas, beautiful bell-shaped earrings, in. I smile at my reflection before covering myself in several layers. I have learned my lesson against these New England winters. I take my seat; the lights are dim. 

Removing my layers, I breathe in the familiar scent of cardamom, and my ears percolate to the sweet dialect of Hindi; the lights come on. In rich colours of red, pink, gold, and orange, I watch as the dancers take the stage. The music fills me; the visuals stun me. Familiar warmth begins to defrost the unfamiliarity; my guard begins to drop. 

I clap my hands along with the people next to me, beaming at their enjoyment. I am nowhere else but here at this moment.