大象传媒

Thursday, February 9, 2023

I鈥檓 bundled in a wool overcoat against the 6 a.m. winter chill of Los Angeles. The former New Yorker in me scoffs at how soft I鈥檝e become against the cold鈥攐r rather, the 鈥渃old,鈥� since it鈥檚 a full 50 degrees and I鈥檓 shivering. Today鈥檚 high is 80, so by noon I鈥檒l have stripped down to a crop top. I know it鈥檚 climate change and all, but I鈥檇 be lying if I said I鈥檓 not just a tiny bit excited for a short reprieve from the monotonous months of 50-degrees-and-rainy that we鈥檝e been having this winter.

The morning frost on my Subaru is tenacious, even after I run the engine for a little while. I鈥檓 bordering on late for kathak class, so I pull out of the driveway with icy windows and hurry to beat the rush-hour traffic.

In the studio it鈥檚 a steady thrum of the tabla over the stereo system:

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na 

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na鈥�dha

gin na鈥�dha

gin na鈥�dha

And then a relentlessly driving pace of chakkar, or one-count spins:

tig da dig dig ek鈥�

诲辞鈥�

迟别别苍鈥�

肠丑补补谤鈥�

辫补补苍肠丑鈥�

肠丑丑别鈥�

蝉补补迟丑鈥�

And on and on鈥�

After an hour of this, I鈥檓 breathless. We鈥檝e been drilling a composition with 31 chakkar, and even after months, I鈥檓 losing my balance somewhere around 26.

I leave class and head back to my car, protein shake in hand, sweat gluing my kurta to my skin, a string of profanities running through my mind as I scold myself for tapping out at 26. I鈥檝e just slipped into my driver鈥檚 seat when my phone rings. One peek at the screen and my mood elevates. 

鈥淗颈 Amma,鈥� I say with unrestrained fondness as my mother鈥檚 face grins back at me over FaceTime.

鈥淗颈 chinna,鈥� she responds with equal affection. 鈥淛ust finished kathak?鈥�

鈥淵eah, about to head to the grocery store on my way home.鈥�

鈥淪hall we quickly call Ammamma before she sleeps?鈥�

鈥淪ure, my parking meter鈥檚 out in 10, though.鈥�

鈥淲e can just say hi. FaceTime or Whatsapp?鈥�

鈥淔aceTime. Can you add her in?鈥�

鈥淥ne minute.鈥�

After some shuffling around, a second little box populates on my screen, offering me the stray wisps of white hair otherwise known as the top of my grandmother鈥檚 head.

鈥淗颈 Ammamma,鈥� I say.

鈥淗颈 Amma,鈥� my mom chirps.

鈥淗颈 kanna. Bujie kanna re. Sweetie kanna,鈥� croons my ammamma鈥檚 forehead. 鈥淗ow are you both?鈥�

鈥淕ood, can you bring the phone down?鈥� I say, holding back a laugh. 鈥淲e only see the top of your head.鈥�

Amma and I call Ammamma together every week. It used to be Sundays, like clockwork, when I was in grade school. Now it鈥檚 sort of whenever we catch each other. Every week we remind her to tilt the phone down so we can actually see her face. And every week she insists on greeting us with her forehead.

My grandma, like many women in her generation, carries a deep anxiety. Kathak transcends that, transports us together, unlocks her.鈥�

Ammamma鈥檚 puttering around her kitchen in Hyderabad, 8,711 miles away from me in California. My memory conjures up the smell of hearty palakurrapappu and fluffy idli. Chili-spiced tur dal roasting on the tava for homemade podi. The softness of her orange sari, pallu tied securely around her waist so it stays out of the way of her busy hands. 

She鈥檚 lived alone in Tarnaka for almost 40 years, ever since my grandfather passed away. She鈥檚 85 now and wobbles about her small flat with the vigor and determined independence of a 20-year-old. My amma got this from her, I think. I swear my amma will be single-handedly shoveling piles of snow as tall as she is (5 whole feet) from her Park City, Utah, driveway until she鈥檚 90 years old.

I tell Ammamma about kathak class and she glows with pride. 鈥淰ery good, kanna, Very good. I鈥檓 very glad you鈥檙e keeping up with kathak. Very good.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檒l show you this new composition when I next come, Ammamma.鈥� She smiles the most when I promise this. Every year, when we visit her in India, I dance for her. In those 15 minutes while she watches, she鈥檚 filled with more childlike joy, more wonder, more freedom of spirit, than any other moment I see her. My grandma, like many women in her generation, carries a deep anxiety. Kathak transcends that, transports us together, unlocks her. Dance is hardly my profession, but it has a cemented place in my life as a psychosomatic way to stay rooted in culture and family, from half a world away. As a way of staying connected to Ammamma.

鈥�Aim chestunavu, Amma? What are you doing?鈥� my mom asks her mother.

鈥�Aim ledu. Just putting away the food.鈥� 

鈥淲hat did you make for dinner?鈥�

鈥淣othing much,鈥� Ammamma says. 鈥淪ome pappannam, that is all. Tomorrow I鈥檒l make some cabbage koora.鈥� She pauses in her puttering to pick something up off the counter. 鈥淪ee? Do you see the cabbage?鈥�

Ammamma adjusts the angle of the camera in an effort to show us her cabbage.

鈥淒o you see?鈥� But she鈥檚 pointing the camera at her ceiling, and I鈥檓 having a hard time repressing my laughter. 

鈥淣o, Ammamma, we can鈥檛 see. You鈥檙e showing us the ceiling.鈥�

Ammamma adjusts the angle again, and now we鈥檙e feasting our eyes on a sliver of her ceiling that鈥檚 been joined by a section of her wall.

鈥淣ow? Now do you see? Do you see the cabbage?鈥� 

Amma is openly laughing. 鈥淣o, Ma, we don鈥檛 see the cabbage. You鈥檙e showing the wall.鈥�

Another unsuccessful adjustment, then: 鈥淥K, now? Now do you see the cabbage? Do you see the cabbage?鈥�

Ammamma鈥檚 excitement is only intensifying, but no appearance from any cabbage thus far. Now Amma and I are both shaking with mirth.

鈥淒o you see it?鈥� Ammamma continues to insist. 

We don鈥檛 answer, because we鈥檙e too busy gasping for breath. Then, miraculously, we see a sliver of a blurry green leaf flash across her FaceTime camera.

鈥淥h!鈥� Amma and I both shout. 

鈥淲e see it, Ammamma!鈥�

鈥渊别蝉, yes, we see it, Ma.鈥�

鈥淵ou see the cabbage? You see it?鈥�

鈥淵es! Yes, Ammamma, we see the cabbage!鈥�

Now even Ammamma is laughing. 

I screenshot this moment several times, never wanting to forget these small winks of diasporic joy, the three of us spread across three cities and three generations, giggling like sisters together on a sunshine summer afternoon.

It鈥檚 not long before Ammamma鈥檚 chuckles turn into coughs, peppered by a sort of rough wheezing that I learned as a child is part of her chronic asthma. My parking meter blinks red.

Tuesday, November 19, 2047

I鈥檓 in the front yard, doling out carefully measured sprinkles of water to the small garden I鈥檝e struggled to nurture for the last several growing seasons. The water rations for victory gardens have gotten more and more economical over the last 10 years. In our little patch we still get tomatoes and kale and grow some neem, and the occasional surprise potatoes spring out from wherever we鈥檝e last dug in compost. The rest of our food comes from the community garden (which does better some years than others), the local co-op (which is not always well-stocked because it hasn鈥檛 quite yet reached financial stability), or with great burden to our wallets (anything requiring long-distance freight costs an arm and a leg now, partially because it鈥檚 just too expensive at a basic resource and carbon level, and partially because of the taxes they鈥檝e been trying to institute on non-local food). 

It鈥檚 been a tough transition period. Here in California, we have the farming infrastructure but not the water. In other parts of the country, land that鈥檚 been monocropped under generations of agribusiness is in various stages of transition to regenerative farming. The question of who pays for this transition, what carbon taxes get charged or credited and to whom, and who leads the proposed solutions that take the place of the old order 鈥� well, it鈥檚 been a thorny time. But it鈥檚 also a time of inspired experimentation. I remind myself of that when the overwhelm hits. I remind myself of the energy:

Where we live, in the historically Black neighborhood of Leimert Park, our family鈥檚 borne witness and supported as those who鈥檝e been holding it down here for generations lead the charge on collective care. Community gardens, co-ops, free fridges, heat shelters, communal front-yard victory gardens, shade-tree planting, seed saving, after-school programs, 鈥淏uy Nothing鈥� gift economy groups, car shares, and so much more. Funding is a constant issue for these initiatives (right now the biggest source of funding is private donors, but the community is keenly problem-solving for a self-sufficient model). Everything鈥檚 decided at our monthly town hall meetings, which are always lively and full of opinions. There鈥檚 a small group of us South Asians in the neighborhood, and our agreed-upon job at these meetings is mostly to listen well and provide the chai. 

Out in the garden, dusk is dancing vividly before me, blues chasing pinks chasing oranges across the hazy horizon. I always stop to cherish it, never knowing how many more I鈥檒l savor before the smog swallows up color altogether. 

I pause over the far end of the garden, which has been exceptionally dry no matter how much I try to feed it. It鈥檚 honestly a little embarrassing. My neighbors鈥� victory gardens look far more luscious than mine. The community decided at one of our first meetings years ago that victory gardens would go in the front yard (communal, conversational, open, and engaging) rather than in the backyard (hidden, private, inaccessible). 99 percent of the time, I love that we made this decision. The 1 percent is just the occasional despair I feel when I remember that my garden is on display and not in the best shape, and my ego gets to me. I make a mental note to hop next door tomorrow to Amrit and Hari鈥檚 to ask Hari what cover crops are working in his yard these days鈥攈is green thumb has always guided mine, and maybe he鈥檒l know how to better nourish this dry patch.

From somewhere inside the house, my phone rings. 

鈥淎mma!鈥� Gita鈥檚 voice calls to me. 鈥淚t鈥檚 Ammamma.鈥�

Her 5-foot frame, identical to mine, comes bounding through the open screen door, my phone in her hand. 

Gita鈥檚 hair is curly like mine, and I fucking love that about her. She鈥檚 smart as a whip, and I love that even more about her. Sometimes I look at her and marvel at the fact that I made that creature. Now I understand what my amma鈥檚 always saying about 鈥渉aving a kid is like putting your heart outside of yourself and watching it walk around,鈥� or some shit like that. Sometimes I want to gather Gita up and store her safely back inside my body.

She comes over to me and scoops me into an affectionate hug before setting the phone up flat on the porch table and hitting 鈥渁nswer.鈥� We both activate the bracelets on our wrists. Almost immediately a spark of light projects upwards from the Beam projection port on my phone, and a three-dimensional hologram of my mother takes shape from the light. 

鈥淗颈 Amma,鈥� I say.

鈥淗颈 Ammamma!鈥� Gita says brightly.

鈥淗ello? Hello?鈥� my mom says. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 see you.鈥� 

No matter how many times we do this, she always comes in perplexed at the beginning of a Beam call.

鈥淎mma, did you put it face down on the table again?鈥�

鈥�Allari pilla! Troublemaker. I kept it properly face up, I鈥檓 not that technologically challenged. But still I don鈥檛 see you?鈥�

鈥淒id you turn the brightness back up or is it in night mode?鈥�

鈥淥h. One minute. How do I do that again?鈥�

鈥淭here鈥檚 a control on your bracelet. This is why I was saying you should just leave it on the automatic setting.鈥�

鈥淚 can figure it out. I don鈥檛 like how bright it is on auto, it makes my eyes burn.鈥�

We watch her hologram-self fidget with something off-camera, before lighting up in delight. 

鈥淕ot it!鈥� she says. 鈥淗颈! Oh, Gitu, you鈥檙e looking so nice. Are you going somewhere?鈥�

鈥淭hanks, Ammamma,鈥� Gita says. 鈥淚 was invited to a prayer circle tonight, in preparation for the burns next week. Elena is leading, and she told me I could bring some jasmine and haldi and chandan as offerings from our family.鈥�

For the past few years, Gita鈥檚 been volunteering with the Tongva Conservancy鈥檚 ceremonial burns, covering any responsibilities she鈥檚 invited to participate in. Fire season has worsened over the last 10 years in California, so many regions, including L.A. County, realized survival depended on working with local tribes to revive cultural burning practices. The prescribed burns that Indigenous folks across the world have practiced culturally since time immemorial kept rampant dry brush under control and created a cycle of nourishment for the forests, until colonialism outlawed the practice. In L.A., the late fall burning they鈥檝e restarted allows for plant life to rejuvenate in the rainy winter season, the goal being to once again transform dry underbrush into verdant vegetation come spring. 

We twirl around鈥� between bites of home.鈥�

鈥淗ow are you going there?鈥� my amma asks Gita. 鈥淚 thought your driving permits are Monday, Wednesday, Saturday?鈥�

鈥淓lena got a Tuesday slot in the community car share, so she鈥檚 coming to pick me up. I think she got one of those Rivian two-doors!鈥�

鈥淔ancy,鈥� I say.

Gita goes inside to start gathering her things while I ask Amma what she鈥檚 up to.

鈥淣ot much,鈥� Amma replies. 鈥淛ust making your Ammamma鈥檚 cabbage koora.鈥�

鈥淭ease!鈥� I accuse.

鈥淚 sent you seeds last year!鈥� Amma says defensively.

鈥淵eah, yeah, but they don鈥檛 grow, I told you. The water they need is way beyond our rations.鈥�

We bicker warmly about cabbage koora鈥攁 nostalgic but water-intensive vegetable I probably haven鈥檛 eaten in 15 years at this point. As the cool night air sets in, Amma鈥檚 hologram shines brightly above the porch table. A few stray moths, confused, start circling in the vicinity. I watch their wings disturb the pixels here and there. 

When Elena鈥檚 car (indeed a Rivian two-door) pulls up, Gita flashes by me with a kiss and hops in, leaving the divine aroma of jasmine and chandan in her wake. At the same moment, a second set of footsteps tip-tap up the stairs from the street into our garden, and I鈥檓 engulfed in a familiar embrace.

鈥淗颈 buddy!鈥� a voice coos at me. It鈥檚 Aditi, close friend and co-conspirator. She plops her bike helmet and backpack onto a chair on our porch. Seeing that my mom鈥檚 on Beam on the table, she grins. 鈥淗颈 Aunty!鈥� She hits the 鈥渏oin鈥� button on her Beam bracelet so that my mom can see her hologram, then sprawls out in the grass beside me. 鈥淗ow are you?鈥�

鈥淗颈, Aditi! Good, good. How are you, how鈥檚 Noor?鈥�

鈥淭hey鈥檙e good, they鈥檙e still at the courthouse, or they would鈥檝e come by with me.鈥� Then Aditi nods at her backpack and looks at me conspiratorially. 鈥淚 went to the Indian store today.鈥�

I let out a whoop. This is a luxury we reserve only for special occasions. 鈥淪hut up. What鈥檙e we celebrating?鈥�

鈥淲ellll, Noor Beamed me from the courthouse today and told me that our permit request for the collective is next in line for consideration. And that they think we鈥檙e a sure thing.鈥�

Amma鈥檚 hologram gasps. 鈥淭he housing collective?鈥�

鈥淭he one and only!鈥� Aditi says. 

That night, with Amma still on Beam, Aditi pulls out fresh guavas and late-season mangoes, a rare pleasure all the way from the subcontinent, and we twirl around鈥�

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na 

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na

鈥�between bites of home.

Friday, July 9, 2077

I eye the box on my coffee table with suspicion. Gita鈥檚 had some strange contraption called Iris delivered to me, and she swears it鈥檚 worth whatever trouble it surely brings. I asked Aditi and Noor about it, and they agreed that the concept of sticking digital contact lenses in one鈥檚 eyes is unpleasant, to say the least. Gita instructed me to be open to it and threatened to call me an old codger if I refuse to even try it out.

鈥淚ris makes your eye a projector, Amma, your eye. Can you believe it? It鈥檒l be like Reyna and I are there with you, 3D, walking and talking and interacting with you and your space. Like we鈥檙e literally there,鈥� she鈥檇 said when we last talked. 

The idea of feeling like my daughter and granddaughter are physically with me ultimately makes Iris an easy sell, despite my hesitations. Remembering her words, I decide to open the damn box.

After great difficulty and no small amount of grumbling, I鈥檝e finally affixed the small translucent contacts to my eyes, and, scrutinizing the user manual, I figure out how to power on this incredibly invasive piece of technology. I鈥檝e had it on for less than two minutes when the accompanying earbud headphones inform me that I have an incoming call. It is, of course, Gita.

鈥淎mma!鈥� she shouts joyfully. 鈥淵ou did it! You finally listened to me! This is so cool.鈥�

I鈥檓 not sure exactly what is so cool, as my vision is blurry and I鈥檓 completely baffled by how she could possibly be seeing me right now. But I take her word for it. Gita does some troubleshooting that I don鈥檛 understand, laughs at me quite a few times for being a bumbling fool with this new device, and finally coaches me through getting the focus in the lenses calibrated. 

The technology misses what I love most about them: their smell, the warmth of their skin, the calm in my own heart when I鈥檓 in their physical presence.鈥澛�

And then I see what鈥檚 so cool. Gita has set it so that the simulated world we鈥檙e in is my real front yard. I鈥檓 really here, right here, right now, lying in the grass. And it looks like they鈥檙e here, too, as full-scale renderings of their real selves. They can interact with me, with my garden. On their end, Gita tells me, it鈥檚 like being in virtual reality. She tells me that next time, we鈥檒l make the setting her house, where she and Reyna can move around in the real world and I鈥檒l be visiting via virtual reality. Once I鈥檝e quit my grumblings, we settle into our regular pattern of conversation鈥攚hat we鈥檙e all eating, how everyone鈥檚 love interests are, whether we鈥檙e taking care of our health鈥攅xcept it is quite cool, because the whole time it鈥檚 like Gita and Reyna are lounging in the yard with me. I tell them this reminds me of way back when I was a kid in India, loitering outside all afternoon with my cousins.

鈥淵ou used to go to India every year, Ammamma?鈥� Reyna asks me, eyes wide. 

鈥淓very year. We were very lucky.鈥�

鈥淒o you think you鈥檒l ever go back?鈥�

鈥淲ith the flight restrictions, it鈥檚 almost impossible,鈥� I say. 鈥淣ow I think it鈥檇 take me three trains and a whole-ass ship. No, I don鈥檛 think I鈥檒l ever be able to go back. But sometime in the future 鈥� I think you will.鈥�

My girls both reach out to me as glittering pixels in the golden summer afternoon. I like how realistically Iris portrays them, truly as if they鈥檙e here in the grass with me, just like Gita promised, reaching towards me to comfort me. But the technology misses what I love most about them: their smell, the warmth of their skin, the calm in my own heart when I鈥檓 in their physical presence. 

When Gita told me she and her partner Gloria had decided to move away from L.A. to raise Reyna somewhere that was more climate-stable, I understood. My mother left her mother in India to come to America in search of a better life, an economically stable life, a life that would offer the opportunity of abundance for us鈥攆or me鈥攁fter the literal and metaphorical scarcity that British colonialism imposed on the subcontinent. At the time, who would鈥檝e thought that decades later, rampant consumption and capitalism would finally deliver that same scarcity here to our doorsteps in America? 

Then I moved away from my mother, starting a life in L.A. in community with other South Asian storytellers who were committed to drawing attention to climate and culture. Those of us who鈥檇 joined the movement as soon as we became conscious of it saw the writing on the wall long back, but it took the bubble actually popping around the wealthy for those in power to take any real action on what was going on. 

In L.A., most of the mansions in the hills got wiped out by fires long ago. A staccato of winter storms caused irreparable mudslides along Mulholland Drive. The Pacific Ocean claimed Santa Monica. The city was forced to implement retreat strategies, which led to them regulating lot sizes as more people had to relocate to the livable areas of L.A. Predictably, some millionaires really fought against this and did everything they could to rebuild their mansions and add 鈥渃limate-protective measures,鈥� but no one ever got too far in the process because insurance companies no longer cover houses built in long-designated Hazard Zones, and after a certain point with all the carbon taxes levied on any building project that exceeds Reciprocal Resourcing Standards, the mansions were no longer financially viable. Other millionaires were shockingly supportive of the lot size restrictions, and wound up working within Reciprocal Resourcing Standards to build sustainable collectives.

Of course, some people still went the route of save-myself-at-the-expense-of-others. They built bunkers with the goal of 鈥渟elf-sufficiency.鈥� It鈥檚 a seductive idea, until you realize what it means is isolation from any sense of community. We are by definition interdependent. Our survival is predicated on our ability to work together. But I鈥檓 pretty sure Elon Musk鈥檚 kids are still raising their families all alone in their secluded fortress. Their only outside interaction is probably with the drones that deliver their caviar.

It鈥檚 like a mini Wakanda here now. But with less beautiful superheroes and more elderly people.鈥�

Ultimately, it was the local resilience, the grassroots ideas, the place-based knowledge that allowed us to survive. These days, I live at Aunty Gang Collective (the name was inspired by Gita always calling me and my cherished group of South Asian women friends 鈥渁unty gang鈥�). Here, there鈥檚 no caviar (never understood the appeal, anyway), but there鈥檚 music in the streets every day.

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na

After weathering a long waitlist at the permitting office, our little collective of 15 homes was finally greenlit and built with reclaimed and organic material as part of a government-sponsored hyper-localization effort. Over the last 30 years, L.A. was essentially renovated and rewilded by a team of what we would鈥檝e called environmental architects back when I was growing up (today we just call them 鈥渁rchitects鈥�), led by a group of Indigenous engineers and designers.

We can鈥檛 drive much anymore (even electric cars, which over time proved to be too resource-intensive to continue manufacturing at scale), but it鈥檚 OK, because the electric buses and trains are much more connected than they used to be. Plus, Aditi and Noor are original Aunty Gang members and live just down the street. We hobble over to each other鈥檚 houses almost every day.

鈥淥K, so India鈥檚 off the table,鈥� Gita says, cutting off my thoughts, 鈥渂ut more realistically, can you come here, Amma? I told you, Gloria and I can arrange for the flight permits鈥攚e have so many credits from volunteer days with the ceremonial burning crews. The aunty gang can help you pack up, and you can be here by next week.鈥�

I make a face at her. I hope with Iris that she can properly see the extent of my disdain for this idea. 

鈥淣ot this again, kanna.鈥� I stick her with an exaggerated eye roll. 鈥淓very call, the same thing: 鈥楢mma, now that Dad has passed what鈥檚 left for you in L.A.? You鈥檙e allllll alooone, why don鈥檛 you leave everything you鈥檝e known for the last 60 years and come here to fucking Duluth, Minnesota, to join us in this commune of white people.鈥� Chhi!鈥�

鈥淲ell, it was either this or Vermont,鈥� Gita quips back. 鈥淎nd it鈥檚 not called Duluth anymore. It鈥檚 Onigamiinsing鈥攊t鈥檚 Ojibwe. Anyway, please just think about it.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檒l think about it,鈥� I lie.

鈥淵ou say that every time, but you never really do.鈥�

鈥淎nd yet you keep asking.鈥�

鈥淚 worry about you.鈥�

鈥淎nd I worry about you, kanna.鈥�

鈥淎bout me? I have Glo and Reyna. I don鈥檛 like you being alone over there, you鈥檙e 82, and that鈥檚 not young.鈥�

鈥淥K, first of all, rude. Second of all, I鈥檓 not alone! I have Aunty Gang, all my friends within walking distance. The Collective has grown a lot since you last visited. It鈥檚 like a mini Wakanda here now. But with less beautiful superheroes and more elderly people.鈥�

鈥淲补办补-飞丑补迟?鈥�

鈥淣ever mind, it鈥檚 before your time. How鈥檚 kathak class, Reyna?鈥� I change the subject swiftly.

鈥淥h. Good!鈥� Reyna says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e working on chakkar. I鈥檓 up to 31 in a row! I can Iris you from our studio next time and show you, Ammamma. It鈥檒l be like you鈥檙e watching me dance in person.鈥�

The thought fills me with pride. With longing. With wonder at the fact that so many generations, so many geographic locations and climate-related disruptions later, we preserve this art purely because it makes us happy.

鈥淭hat would be lovely, kanna.鈥� I pause. 鈥�Actually, I wanted to show you something.鈥� I take a few steps over to my left. 鈥淐an you see?鈥�

鈥淪ee what? You鈥檒l have to be more specific, Amma,鈥� Gita says.

I point. 鈥淥K, do you see this?鈥� I鈥檓 gesturing to the front left corner of my garden, the dry section that insisted on following me from Leimert Park to Aunty Gang Co. The dry section where years ago I鈥檇 planted some cabbage seeds my mother had given me, though they鈥檇 never grown. The dry section that now was鈥� 

鈥淚 don鈥檛 see where you鈥檙e pointing, Amma,鈥� Gita says. 鈥淚t must be out of scope. Let鈥檚 expand range on your Iris.鈥�

I fidget with the control she directs me toward. 

鈥淥K, did it work?鈥� I ask. 鈥淐an you see?鈥�

Gita stifles a laugh and Reyna openly giggles. 鈥淣o, Amma. I think you narrowed the scope.鈥�

鈥淥h. What do you see?鈥�

鈥淵our foot.鈥�

鈥淥ops,鈥� I say. I try again, but the touchy control is so minimalist that I can鈥檛 tell where on the range scale I am. 鈥淗ow about now? Now can you see it?鈥�

鈥淣o, Ammamma,鈥� Reyna laughs. 鈥淣ow we see your left big toe. In precise 诲别迟补颈濒.鈥�

I mumble some R-rated expletives under my breath. 鈥淏ut I can see you. How am I supposed to know what you鈥檙e seeing? I told you I wouldn鈥檛 like this Iris thing.鈥�

鈥淥K, let鈥檚 stay calm,鈥� Gita says, still chuckling. She talks me through the bewildering device and finally the formerly very dry patch of my garden is evidently in view, because鈥� 

鈥淚s that cabbage?鈥� Gita exclaims in shock.

鈥淵es!鈥� I exclaim right back. 鈥淚t鈥檚 cabbage! Cabbage!鈥� I let out a loud hooray.

鈥淥K, OK, we see it,鈥� Gita laughs. 鈥淲e see the cabbage.鈥�

鈥凌别测苍补, choodu! Look!鈥� I say. 鈥淏aby cabbages!鈥�

Reyna looks perplexed at my joy. 鈥淰ery cool, Ammamma 鈥︹��

Personally, I don鈥檛 think either of them get the hype at all, so I try again. 鈥淭hese haven鈥檛 grown here since I was around your age, Gita. My ammamma used to make cabbage koora all the time. And to think Reyna鈥檚 never even seen one!鈥�

鈥淲hat? I see them all the time,鈥� Reyna protests. 鈥淎mma made cabbage koora last week!鈥�

鈥渊别蝉, kanna,鈥� I say, 鈥渂ut that鈥檚 that hydroponic shit you people grow over there. The real stuff is grown in the dirt. Real soil. Real food.鈥�

鈥淥K, Amma, let鈥檚 not get into this again,鈥� Gita says, clearly miffed. 鈥淗ydroponics have fed a lot of people over the last 50 years. But I鈥檓 very happy for you about your cabbages. You can Iris us once they ripen, and we can make cabbage koora together. Reyna and I with our 鈥榟ydroponic shit鈥� and you with your 鈥榦f-the-dirt鈥� stuff.鈥�

We dream for a while together about cabbage koora, until Gita declares that it鈥檚 bedtime for them over on Ojibwe Land. 

I disconnect from Iris and allow the shimmering afternoon to envelop me. I slip my shoes off and dig my feet into moist soil. I feel my pulse.

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥攇in na

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na

My back hurts more often these days, and the asthma鈥檚 been back for nearly 20 years (one can鈥檛 blame my lungs鈥�they put up a heroic fight against nearly half a century of summer wildfire smoke). I鈥檝e had my share of cancer scares, too, like the rest of us. 

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na

I think of the two generations before me, who saw the world change so much in their own lifetimes: my ammamma watching India gain independence from the British Raj, and my amma, moving to a completely different continent and building a new life from scratch. 

I think of the two generations after me: Gita, who didn鈥檛 see stars for the first three decades of her life until regulations helped clear the smog. Reyna, who鈥檚 never seen the snow but can do 31 chakkars and accompanies her mom to volunteer for ceremonial burn support. 

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na

I think of the descendants that follow, from whom I borrow this earth.

And in the cabbage patch, loam between my toes,

tha ki ta tha ki ta鈥�gin na鈥�dha.

      鈥�gin na鈥�dha.

      鈥�gin na鈥�dha.

I dance.

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate fiction contest from Grist. Imagine 2200 celebrates stories that offer vivid, hope-filled, diverse visions of climate progress.