We started early again. We wanted to beat the heat. The hotel did a decent, if run of the mill, breakfast. I had the grits. I did not quite remember what grits were like. This edition was like upma, with larger grains, but without any spice. Well, I am guessing it had salt. Where is the hot sauce when you need it? They had not put any out. I asked the young man, Black, that was taking care of the food and breakfasters. He went into the kitchen for it. An older lady, Black, perhaps the cook, perhaps a manager type, brought out a bottle of Frank’s. Good old Frank. And she said something. And I replied. We laughed. It was a good laugh. Relaxed and genuine. But for the life of me, I cannot remember what was said.

Happens to me a lot. The facts of a situation are hazy. Rather, what has remained in mind, is some emotion of the moment. Which is also to say, beyond a certain point, I cannot trust my memory.

My Mom got the eggs. Eggs, bagel, and some coffee, that’s her thing. Bagel with butter and jelly, not cream cheese. She does not seem to like cereal, hot or cold. I’ll sometimes go for the oatmeal, she steers clear off it.

While traveling with my Mom, I know now that I do not have to worry about food. Just about anything vegetarian works. She does have preferences. However she does not advertise those preferences. I have to watch what she does, to figure out what she likes and what she avoids. Subs, sandwiches, work. Pizza, pasta, does too. The thing has to be light. Mexican, Thai, all good. Macaroni and cheese, I believe she likes, though tellingly, she has never said so. We have stopped going to Indian restaurants. The food is often a disappointment, and even when it is okay, it does not seem worth the price. Most Indian restaurant food pales in comparison with what Indian families make at home everyday.

I heard someone say this of the people of post-war East End – the ‘pride in making do’. That reminds me of my Mother. Please allow me to resist unpacking that further.

We left the hotel before 9:00 AM. It was already hot, God help us. The heat is a thing that no longer feels natural to me. I grew up with it. Now, it drives me slightly mental.

We headed first to the bus stop where Rosa Parks used to catch that bus. It is at the corner where Dexter Ave meets Court Sq. At the other end of Dexter Ave is the Alabama State Capitol. In between is Dexter Ave Baptist, Martin Luther King Jr’s church and home.

There were very few people about. Well, it was fairly early on a Saturday morning. Two old men were sitting with a small folding table in front of them. One Black, one White. I had an inkling what this was about. I have been to other ‘places you must see’ before. The Black gentleman came up and, more or less, started to sell his services as a guide. I said we were fine, but not before thanking him with a 20 dollar bill.

Excessive, yes, but we were on a pilgrimage dammit. Exactly what my Dad would have done, by the way. I come by my foolishness honestly.

There were a few historical markers, a couple on poles, and one set in the ground, next to the statue of Rosa Parks. My Mom read every plaque. I knew that would happen. I knew my Mom would diligently engage with what we came across. Some things, a few things, I do know.

The trip to Montgomery and Selma was exactly like the trips my parents would take to temples in myriad corners of India. The instinct that took them to those temples is the same instinct that took me to Alabama. This effort that we were making – I knew my Mom would not find it foreign, nor unnecessary, nor boring.

My Mom leaned on a decorative bollard and gave Rosa Parks her attention. I was happy. This trip to Alabama was not a mistake.