A Heart of Stone

It is my sincere regret and an item on my long list of worries that I am incapable of understanding the gravity of a situation right when it's happening. I'm not sure how much longer "I'm too young to understand" will remain an excuse. This doubt is the result of a few scattered incidents; only two of them stand out.

In the beginning of 2011, when I was 10 years old and in fifth grade, Pt. Bhimsen Joshi had passed away. I did not understand the full weight of this (despite having researched him so my class could give a presentation on him), lil' young-in that I was. Five years later, I heard a few songs he sang, and I realized something: enjoying beauty and recognizing beauty are two different things. I recognize the beauty in the voices of Jayteerth Mevundi, Anand Bhate, Dr. Vasantrao Deshpande, Kumar Gandharva, and other classical music singers. I consider it a flaw, a side effect of the fact that I am a teenage, that I cannot enjoy this. But I digress.

I was able to scratch the surface of what the world had lost with the passing of Pt. Bhimsen Joshi after five to six years of his passing. I explore more and more of Indian classical music every time I listen to the songs on my phone or the phones of my family. I wish I had done so sooner.

The next incident is worrisome. It worries me, at least. It happened very recently (on the last Sunday of July, in fact). We were in Devas at the house of Pt. Kumar Gandharva. I know he's important to my family, and as much as I hate myself for recognizing the beauty of his music but not enjoying it, I have heard his songs. Except, again, I could not understand the weight of the situation. My father demonstrated that to me, whether he meant to or not, just by sinking down onto the floor and holding his head in his hands, his eyes red and – perhaps – crying.

We're talking about a man not afraid of death, not mine and not his own. Him. With red eyes.

Does something to a daughter.

My uncle explained to me how many great people had once set foot in this room – names I recognize from the conversations we have at home. Later, my dad explained that that was a room that held the memories of the people he held in the highest regard. I understand the weight of his words, but I don't understand the feeling. It's not that I think, "What's so great about it?" It's that I wish I could feel what he's feeling, because it's worth it. That gave me a mystery to ponder on the way home.

Would I ever hold anyone – or anything – in that high a regard? Perhaps it's a bit early to ask that question and expect an answer. But this is my time: my time to discover what I like, dislike, hold in high regard. I know that I value my family, and I know I value science and intelligence. So, I ask myself, what would happen if I visited Newton's grave?

It's a bit scary to think about, to be honest. I don't see myself traveling to England anytime soon, if indeed that's where he was buried. Also, I live in a post-Newtonian world, where his life's work is an accepted truth and is, furthermore,  the foundation of a lot of modern day physics. He's the stuff of legend, and visiting his grave would be unreal, period. No, it shocks, scares, and saddens me to reach the conclusion that I probably would not cry at Newton's grave – though if an opportunity presents itself, I wouldn't miss visiting it.

But the thing is, even my dad can get emotional at something that's close to his heart – yes, he has a heart. He's fearless in many senses, but he's human enough to "lose it" in certain situations, something I have been incapable of doing.

I've visited the houses of Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe. I've seen Boston Harbor, where the Boston Tea Party took place. I've been to an observatory. I've seen planets and stars through telescopes. I've seen the Milky Way and a meteor shower with my naked eye. I've visited forts and monuments, and I've been to Pt. Kumar Gandharva's house, and – 

And what? I've never once sunk to my knees in awe. Not even for science.

It is easy to wonder if my dad even has emotions. That wonder is misplaced – he's not the robot. If I don't solve this, I might be the robot.