Taj Mahal

I always adored other cultures; in a way my children could never understand. Each night I would take out a picture atlas and recount a bedtime story based where my finger landed. I was not afforded the ability to take time off work and show them the world back then. Now they are 30, used to promises unkept.

Today is a different story, a romantic getaway. I will see Belgrade’s national park, museums, and castles. How exciting. My partner Amelia kindly guides me, by my side squeezing my bare shoulder, as we explore her home country. When I was younger, and absorbed in tales of exotic lands, I sought to engage my children with my interest. Now, finally 60, I’ve met the right person who thinks this way. I wait by the stairs. The concrete tiles are like hot plates, hard.

Of all my favourite legends, the one I told the most was the building of the Taj Mahal: The product of dedication over the spans of two decades; a tomb dedicated to honour the King’s undying love. At the opposite bank of the Yamuna river, there was to be a second built to the same specifications, mirroring it in black. There the two lovers, a kind of Yin and Yang would lay. Their pure love immortalized by grand gestures, lasting for time immemorial.

Whenever I recounted this to my children at our beachside Williamstown address, I would point at photos of the masterpiece, the King’s life work. I left out how it resolved, until many years later where they had a trip to India booked with their mother.  I felt it was time to mention the rest of the story, as if teaching an important lesson:

The King was deposed of by his son and locked up, where he spent his last days. The wealth his son inherited with the throne was put to other use, and when the King finally died, he was placed in the same tomb.

I wondered who did the wealth belong to, the dead or the alive? Was people’s memory not important, their wishes turned to dust?

Stories kept the family together. As my children grew older, our daily communication reduced to an exchange of grunts. I had more to do with my patients, memorizing their ailments to a T, learning about their week and current life plans throughout 60-hour weeks. Now my children have drifted. My providing is my way of being present. Working night and day puts more than food on the table. It has brought us three investment properties, a lot to be thankful for.

I am ready to experience the world. Take a retirement settlement and experience a life with Amelia. In a few days I will meet her extended family, but for now we will take it quietly exploring the hotel and its surrounds. Acquiring directions from the concierge, we set out for our first day of Belgrade, hand in hand, her warm sweaty hand, I melt. A falling feeling. Everything pauses, I’m too caught up to react. Amelia hovers over anxiously, her once soft voice piercing my ears. Of my first ten steps leaving the hotel, one of them has not landed. This moment I am happy. My forehead etched into the pavement.

* * *

Love is patriarchal property; you learned that from Dad. Now you open a message from Amelia in the request folder, followed by scores of missed phone calls. You throw down your phone in disbelief, and for the next few days debate with your sister. What are we to do with Dad? There is no way you are forking out 30,000 euro for Dad’s reparation, nobody’s worth that. Surely there’s an easier solution. Serbia doesn’t allow cremation; it goes against their religion. What if we pay someone to transport Dad to Croatia for about 500 euro? Then all we need to do is have him cremated and sent here. 1500 euro, that’s a more sensible deal. Dad had a lot of friends. We could have a small gathering.

You never finished high school, still you made your way through life. That did not matter now. There were a few properties left to you and your sister. You would not even need to sell them, you could just move in. All dad had done was amass wealth. You had one thing in common: As you approached his age you would fear death. The urn arrives. You open the lid, peer into the ash and remember that he wanted his Taj Mahal black.