An hour or so later found us at the Freedom Monument Sculpture Park.

It was hot now, good and proper. The heat in the South is peculiarly different from the heat that we know in India. Mom remarks on this too. The temperatures are lower here. But the heat over here burns in a way that the heat, in say Chennai, does not. Could it be the relatively lower pollution? It is all probably in the damn mind. We are in shock. We are in America; we expected the roads were paved with gold; the air a constant balmy 65; the women all look like lifeguards on Baywatch; instead, WTF is this?

In the park, every few feet, along a winding walkway, were sculptures, plaques, and audio exhibits. Mom stopped at each exhibit, read every plaque, listened to every audio recording. Almost 45 minutes in, we barely covered the first quarter of the park. The stories did her in. The heat did not help. I cannot take any more of this, she said, let’s go.

I had shut down even earlier. Certain types of art do not move me. I am afraid the sculptures in that park were amongst them. The reason is not clear to me. Someday I must figure it out. What is ‘Art’ anyway? An act of communication, using a certain medium, employing a certain technique, adhering to certain social rules, communicating a certain story, a certain idea. Whatever they were attempting in that park, was missing me. This is similar to my response to some ‘Indian’ art. Thanjavur paintings, Mughal paintings, Ravi Varma paintings, the temple sculptures, they leave me quite cold. Everything is interesting. I can engage with them intellectually, study them if I have to. But they do not rearrange my insides. I know a piece of ‘art’ works for me, when I cannot escape it. It burrows into the psyche, and stays. The material in that park was not doing it. I followed my Mom, looking at things, with mostly one thought. It is too bloody hot, get me outa here.

We cut across the park. On our way out, we came to a wide and tall, wall with hundreds of names engraved on it. The wall cast a large shadow. I stood in the coolness of that shadow and was soon lost in the names. This ‘art’ was working on me.

One of the staffers in the park came up to me, and we started to chat. She explained what the wall was. After the Civil War, freed slaves registered for the Census. What names do they use? Their ancestral names were lost to them. Do they use the names given to them by their erstwhile owners? So they got to pick names for themselves. Bullseye; something heavy flooded through me. The young lady saw it on my face. She said, yea, cool, ain’t it.

I cannot relate. I cannot put myself in their shoes. This is the unknown. What does it do to you, when you have no past to rest on? Or the only past you have is several generations at the receiving end of slavery. The only life I have known, has been hell on earth. What must I carry forward from this life? What is my name? The name that my owner gave me – do I want it? What is my name? What is my Dad’s name? Who gave my Dad his name? Where did I come from? What is my heritage? A slave shack in Mississippi? Sod that. Who am I? What am I supposed to be now?

Couple of the other staffers joined us. Local college kids on summer jobs, perhaps? They asked me where I was from. I told them, Pittsburgh. I drove to Florida to see my aunts, I said, and we are driving back to Pittsburgh, with a detour through Alabama. They enjoyed that, like one enjoys a disaster movie. Man you’re crazy, they laughed. Yes quite, but I like it, I said.

These few moments, with these young people, made my Alabama trip. They were the monuments, which I needed to see. They were the future that all those earlier lives paid for. I am forever struggling to keep the faith alive. Those young faces, in the shadow of that wall of names, refueled me. We carry on.

We left the park and headed to lunch. It was a Mexican place, called Little Donkey. I must say it hit the spot. The portions were small and light, just right for Mom. I indulged in a Margarita, which was also small enough to be appropriate for lunch.

Next door was Hero Donuts. One of those new fangled places with gargantuan donuts that cost an arm and a leg. They were also serving breakfast. The place was more crowded than the Mexican restaurant next door. One table had a South Asian family. Parents and college-age children, they looked decidedly upper middle class. A physician’s family, I thought, if not, I will eat my non-existent hat.

We ordered a couple of donuts to go. We had to wait a bit. A young Black woman called out, Reddy!. I said, yea, loud enough to catch her attention, raised my hand, and walked towards her. She handed me the bag with a smile. Slightly tired, slow, smile that reached her eyes. God Almighty. ‘Art’ that worked.

Casting my eye over the crowd in Hero Donuts, I finally recognized something I had been seeing all day. Everywhere we went, there were multi-generational African American groups, going about their day, doing things, together. In the hotel, at the memorials, and in the restaurants. It occurred to me that I am not used to seeing that back East, in the neighborhoods I lived in. I am not sure what to make of that. It means something, that.

The donuts were ‘melt in your mouth’ good. But Holy Hell, do they really have to be so expensive?

We finished visiting with Rosa Parks around 9:30 AM. Next stop was a small unanticipated delight.

Hank Williams, the Senior, his grave is in Montgomery. He was from Alabama. I had no idea. I was idly googling things to do in Montgomery when I stumbled on the fact.

There are some sounds, which I hope accompany me into eternity. The music of Hank Williams Sr. is one of them. I find Hank Williams’ voice, his lyrics, and music, a little piece of perfection. Human beings, by definition, are not perfect. However, some of us, at certain times, are able to produce perfection. Hank Williams’ music is one such example for me. They say God is perfect. I cannot know if God exists. I do know Hank Williams’ music exists. I am happy to worship what I can hear, touch, see. Hank Williams’ life was plenty messy. Hank Williams was not God. His music though, to me, is bloody divine.

Krishnamachari Srikanth’s square drive off Andy Roberts, in the 1983 World Cup final. 42 years ago, and I can still see it in my mind’s eye. Tendulkar’s straight drive off Shoaib Akthar, in the 2003 World Cup. Jemima Rodrigues’ knock in the 2025 Semi-Final against Australia. These are of a piece with Hank Williams’ music. A touch of God amongst us mortals.

The cemetery is within the city, not far from downtown. There was a road all way up to Hank Williams’ grave site. It felt good to be there. Part of it was being all by ourselves in that vast cemetery, swaddled in the bright morning sun. It was not hot yet. Part of it was the dubious thrill of being in a place where I am not expected to be. Indian immigrant – what would he know of Hank Williams Sr.? My Mom and I got out of the car and walked about the grave site a bit. Little old Indian lady in a saree, at Hank Williams’ grave. Only in America.

After a bit, an older White couple stopped at the grave. We chatted. If they were surprised to see my Mom and me there, it did not show on their faces. Nice. The lady asked me if we were going to the Hank Williams memorabilia store. I said yes I wanted to, but it was not open yet. The gentleman said they were headed to a Hank Williams Jr. concert later. I replied, oh nice, but it’s not the same. Yes, he agreed, laughing. I offered to take a photo of them at the grave. They readily accepted. Shortly after, Mom and I left. They lingered on at the grave site.

I wanted to ask them where they were from. I did not hear a discernible accent. I imagine somewhere from the vast middle of America. Not a big city. Not a small town. Not a rural county. Middle of all that.

I did not make it to the Hank Williams store. I wanted to go. But the day filled up with other stuff. Also we lost a few hours to the afternoon heat. Ah well, I already have his music – all the memorabilia I need really.

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.

This I believe. When I go to Montgomery, I will see Grace, if not God. In Selma, the air will smell of ‘good trouble’, as John Lewis used to call it. In Alabama , I will lookup, and there it will be, the ‘moral arc of the universe’, breaking towards justice.

Of course, reality turned out to be a mixed bag. I was neither surprised nor shocked.

My Mom and I went to Montgomery, Alabama, this past July 4th.

We left my aunt’s house in Coral Springs early, before 7 AM. First stop was a rest area on the Florida Turnpike. I think it was south of Orlando. It was teeming with people. Where are they all going on the morning of the 4th? Orlando? Humans of every hue in sight. Multi-cultural Central. I’ve seen this before – Sawgrass Mills Mall. And yet, Florida keeps voting Red. I fancy that I know why. The typical immigrant from the Third World is a natural small ‘c’ conservative. Their lives have little room for romantic notions. Also, there are many other Floridas, which the likes of me rarely encounter.

Next stop was lunch, in Gainesville and thereabouts. I knew what I wanted. Some Cajun fries from Five Guys to go with the Tamarind rice that my aunt had packed for us. I found a Five Guys close to one of the Gainesville exits. Drove up, got the fries, and then parked under a tree, by a Checkers not far from the Five Guys. Under that tree, a very satisfying fried-food-centric meal was had by all. The Cajun fries worked perfectly with the Tamarind rice. I knew they would. Some things, a few things, I do know.

Mid afternoon, in Tifton, Georgia, we got off the interstate. Close to the exit was one of those large gas stations. LOVE, I think it was. We refueled and hit the rest rooms. I picked up a batch of my tried and true driving buddies – Brown Sugar and Cinnamon Pop Tarts. They are so good there ought be a law against them. Someday these morsels of Heaven will no longer be sold, and I will die a little.

The cashier was White. He had one earring, and a cross around his neck. A man who was a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Good. I relaxed. My people. The ones who are a confusing jumble. What am I? Indian, or American? I am both, you sorry ‘must be one or the other’ so and so. What’s more, I’ll tell ya, when I watch the ‘Derry Girls’, I am Irish as all get out. Hindu, or Muslim, or Christian, or Jewish? Surely, I ‘contain all of the above’(to paraphrase Walt Whitman), going all the way back to childhood. White, Black, or Brown? How can I be anything but some holy mixture? My world is built from everything I find in it; my life is informed by everything that is around me.

I got on a state route, which more or less would take us to Montgomery. I did not want to take the highway. I wanted to show my Mom, the America that is ‘fly over’ country. That is what I wanted to see too. What time I have left in this world, I want to minimize ‘fly over’. I’ve reached the age where I can feel time running out. Somewhat paradoxically, I am responding by slowing down, rather than speeding up. Trying to make it last, aren’t I?

As I drove, I googled and learned that we were driving through what they call the ‘black belt’. This is a majority Black swath of the country that stretches across the deep Southern states. Montgomery is in the black belt. Montgomery is majority African American. Birmingham, some way to the North, is the other way around.

Early in that leg, still in Georgia, we came across one of those tourist traps masquerading as a farm stand. It had the usual hits. Boiled peanuts, check. Watermelon, check. Fried okra, check. Jams and jellies, check. There was a redeeming surprise or two. Yellow watermelon, say what? Dried, salted, whole okra, very good. The boiled peanuts were pretty darn perfect too. We got a tall cup full. How could we not?

Every town we drove through had a dollar store and apparently little else. My Mom kept saying where is everything? Where is Walmart? Where are the grocery stores? And eventually, she started to ask, where are the White people? Not hard to see their absence. This is rural poverty, I told her. We have urban poverty, and we have rural poverty. Ten minutes from my nephew’s house in Fishtown, Philly, you’ll see urban poverty. Also along the route through Arlington and Mt Oliver, which we take to the Waterfront. You can see rural poverty on the Great Plains. Get off the highway in the Dakotas. See Native American reservations out West. Go deep into the mountains of West Virginia. Heck, drive through the hills in Somerset county, east of Pittsburgh.

We saw very little traffic for miles. At one point, a small nondescript sign flashed by. Stewart Detention Center, it said. I’d never heard of it. But I knew what it was. Googling later confirmed my guess. I did not see a gate or road or anything near by. Only that little sign, by the side of an empty state route, in the middle of nowhere. Sign of the times.

The Alabama state line runs through a largish lake. One side of the lake is Georgia. The other side is Eufala, Alabama. You’ve heard of towns like Eufala. It had a section by the lake, with very large, very old homes. The family in the big home, in a small town – that is a familiar Southern trope. Every second play, film, novel, short story, set in the South, seemed to be about the big home in a small town.

Wait a minute, all the Southern stories that I am somewhat conversant with, come from one source – Tennessee Williams. ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’. And that other one with Shirley Knight and Geraldine Page and Rip Torn. And Paul Newman. ‘Sweet Bird of Youth’?

Was Paul Newman in every movie of every Tennessee Williams play ever made? No. See, ‘Streetcar Named Desire’, and ‘The Glass Menagerie’. And I remember one with Montgomery Clift, the name of which escapes me.

Paul Newman directed a TV movie of the Glass Menagerie. Joanne Woodward was the mother. Can’t remember who played the daughter (Karen Allen?), nor the Gentleman Caller (James Naughton?).

We reached Montgomery around 7 PM. It was still light out. It was July after all. We found our hotel slap in the middle of a very empty downtown Montgomery. And without much further ado, called it a day.