The Buddha in the Attic

But he was nearly as bewildered as I at the answer he gave me.—They don't have homes, they are living there. For Bhupendra, it was the first trip back to Mother India in thirteen years. He was shocked. Everywhere we went, we were surrounded by desperately thin children who begged for the humblest of items: coins, chewing gum, even ballpoint pens—a

Thirty years later, Motiram arrived to an established Indian community. Despite the language barrier, its familiar sights and smells must have been a comfort. Parts of Suva resembled any Indian city: women in saris haggling over vegetables at the market, men in turbans and dhotis walking the streets, whites in their official ghettos sweating in the

For one of my generation to be interested in the old-time ways and stories sometimes brought tears to my elders' eyes. It brought questions, too, including the ones I began dreading as soon as I bought my plane tickets: When are you getting married? followed shortly by Why not?

Slowly we became—all four of us—American. For Bhupendra and Bhanu this would become clearer with each visit to India or Fiji. Although they tried to blend in, to do as the locals did, the mask was less and less perfect. The changes were physiological: they could not drink the water, had to be careful about what they ate, were bothered by pollution.