Books

As I listen to my mother talk, I’m glad that I’m running and that the sound of my steps hitting the asphalt, the undulating rhythm of my breathing, can mask the groans and sighs escaping my lips. Her fanaticism, talking about the elections in India and how she voted for Modi, the hard T’s and D’s of her Hindi settling in my ears in a way that English doesn’t, is hard to take. It only makes sense that I vote for a Hindu man in a Hindu country, she says. Who else is going to save us from the terrorists? Again, I am relieved that I am running, that my exasperation is lost in the strain of my breath and gentle beat of my footfalls as I run down the Centennial trail along the river; my mother’s words devour the distant sounds of morning traffic, leaving nothing in my ears except the weight of her disdain for other religions – for Muslims – and the frightening sense of nationalism that has built in her over the years.