https://48bconsulting.com/ https://www.amazon.com/Like-Water-Leaves-Taro-Himalayan/dp/1964271282Tulasi Acharya’s memoir Like Water on Leaves of Taro begins with a young family’s wish to celebrate the first birthday of their only child with their extended family in Nepal. There is much to be thankful for, and by all measures, the prospects are bright; however, soon after arriving in Nepal, Acharya’s mother-in-law – his sasuma – dies of a heart attack, leaving the family bereft. The meditation on her loss is profound enough, but soon thereafter, his father-in-law becomes ill. Most of Acharya’s memoir is about, not only how he struggles with what his sasuraba’s cancer diagnosis really means – imminent death – but also what death means, in general: his in-laws, his own, that common fate for everybody. Between appointments at various doctor’s offices in Nepal, many staffed by abrasive, seemingly uncaring personnel, Acharya wrestles with the “Big” question, sometimes even bouncing ideas off of his wife, Kripa, who is still dealing with the loss of one parent while contemplating the loss of the second. In a chapter entitled “Declaration of God’s Death,” Acharya quotes his wife as saying, “I always thought there was a God, that God existed, but for me God is dead today. My God is dead.” Here and there, Acharya seems to share this sentiment. Instances of intentional and even spiteful carelessness crop up such as when he lights up a cigarette, knowing full well that smoking tobacco is a well-known carcinogen. But what sets him apart is that, as the memoirist, he indulges in philosophical digressions where he quotes popular poets and writers as if trying to seek wisdom from long-dead mentors. At some point, Acharya confesses that “life ... is both beautiful and fragile,” a conclusion that seems to begin to afford an emotional framework in which to work out his frustrations and fears. It is a truth that grants him freedom, in other words, to recognize the paradoxes that make up a life – that make up all of our lives. To be sure, Acharya’s fatherhood greatly informs his working comprehension of two overlapping seasons – birth and death, a beginning and an ending. He quotes Robert Frost that though “the woods are lovely, dark, and deep,” which is to suggest a nebulous but peaceful end, he has “miles to go before I sleep,” Death is present but not for him. He has work to do. His mother-in-law and soon his father-in-law have clocked out. Their race, to quote scripture, is done. But not his. This revelation seems to be his way to make sense of the passage of time and what that means: gaining some while losing others, but in his case, as with many other men, being a father throughout. This is his toehold. This is the beginning of an answer that makes any sense. It is his sasuraba or father-in-law's parting gift that eventually gives Acharya any peace. The advice is rooted in family and the precious time we have with them, and for Acharya to end on that note underscores the real possibility that he knew the answer all along, even deep down: the memoir begins with family, and it ends with family, and time, like the intruder it is, makes its demands along the way. Tulasi Acharya’s Like Water on Leaves of Taro, therefore, is a story for everyone of us. Its themes are universal, and the struggles of the memoirist are relatable. Grief is more than just what it is on the surface. It is also fear and confusion, anger and desperation. In this memoir, readers bear witness to a young man with a young family openly and honestly bearing his heart to the world with the implicit wish that the reader do the same or at least recognize the common experience of losing loved ones and having to get up the next day to go to work, earn a living, and, infinitely more importantly, love their families every hour, every minute, every blessed second. So pick up a copy. Your lives will be enriched if you do.
