In November of 1991, Rekha Basu's life, and mine, took a sharp turn. We found one another. I introduced her to Dahl's new deli, and she introduced me to New Delhi, India.
The Des Moines Register newsroom was a wide-open space, filled mostly with Caucasians.
Rekha, with her skin the color of cinnamon powder, long dark hair, and deep brown eyes, was brave enough to leave New York and come to Iowa to accept a job as an editorial writer for The Des Moines Register, where I worked at the time.
Her presence in the community, her writing ability and worldview added spice to our pages. A flavor many of us didn't know we craved.
I didn't know her, and it took a few tries to pronounce her Indian name correctly (RAY-kha), but I made it my mission to keep her in town. It wasn't going to be easy because her husband, Rob Borsellino, and other son, Raj, stayed in their New York home, where they would wait until the couple figured out how to juggle their careers.
Rekha is originally from New Delhi, India, and grew up in New York, NY, with her older sister and two extraordinary parents who worked for the United Nations. She attended the UN school where her classmates came from many other countries.
I, on the other hand, grew up in the same house in Des Moines. I only occasionally lived out of the 50312 zip-code until I reached 50. My parents were from Iowa and Connecticut. Their ancestors were from Scotland, England, and Germany like most Iowans. I visited New York once as a kid and was reportedly most impressed by the hot dog carts on city streets. Rekha had never stopped at one of those.
In short order, I introduced Rekha to people across the state and played up the plusses of living in a city the size of Des Moines. At the time, Iowa public schools were among the top in the nation.
Eventually, she introduced me to her home country, India.
We do not fully appreciate the impact we can have on one another. A supportive word, welcoming a newcomer to town, a note of thanks, all can have power beyond measure.
Rob and son Raj did move to Des Moines. For Rob, it was a cultural adjustment for a guy from the Bronx.
I recall riding with Rob as he drove through downtown Des Moines. It's my hometown, so I knew pretty much everyone walking the city sidewalks.. Traffic was slow, and Rob honked his horn and raised his middle finger to the car in front of us. I was horrified.
"Rob, we don't do that in Iowa!" I said.
Through the years, our families spent significant events and holidays together. If either of us had a dinner party, we likely invited the other. Rekha's parents, Rasil and Romen. visited Des Moines, charming everyone they met.
When Rob and Rekha's youngest son, Romen, toasted his grandparents at their 50th wedding anniversary party held in a swanky Manhattan restaurant, he said:
"They came to Des Moines and stole all our friends."
I attended Rob's 50th birthday party in Woodstock, NY and he and Rekha emceed mine in Des Moines.
We shared good times and way too many not so good. They were there for many of my low points. One standout moment was when I had to sell my house in 1992. They helped me move, amidst pouring rain, to a small apartment in the middle of the night.
Ushering in the new century, on the eve of 2000, Rob perpetually seemed to have his arm draped around Rekha. They moved as one through the downtown crowd as they did in life.
I left Des Moines in 2000 for 20 years; we stayed in close touch, however. They came to Annapolis, and I was a frequent visitor to Des Moines.
First, Rekha, then Rob, became successful columnists. It would not have been a surprise had they been wooed back to the east coast by a larger paper. This prospect was on my mind when I showed up around Christmas of 2004, bearing gifts. I presented Rob a Dahl's grocery store coffee cup to remember Des Moines if they moved back to the Big City.
Rob's face grimaced when he opened the gift and read my note. He and Rekha looked at each other with intensity.
Perched on a barstool at their kitchen counter as I had so many times, watching him clean up the kitchen, he said he had been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease). They weren't going to tell anyone until the family could be together for Christmas.
I couldn't fathom or accept the fatal diagnosis. And yet.
Rob Borsellino died on May 27, 2006, at the age of 56. The day before, Richard and I married.
We form tribes through life. We bond over shared experience, loss, purpose, victory, and ethnicity. Or, because we live next door. If we are lucky, through life, we meet many people we like. But real friendships deepen and grow in mutual respect and self-revealing authenticity.
No matter how different we might seem at that first ‘hello-my-name-is’ moment, it is when we share our insecurities, failures, and secrets, as well as celebrate each others’ successes, that we begin to understand how similar we are.
And different.
Which brings us to now. As soon as we were two weeks out from our second vaccination, Rekha booked a nonstop flight from Des Moines to Punta Gorda, where Richard and I have a condo. She and I took off for Sanibel Island, FL, where we spent three glorious days and nights talking, kayaking, walking the beaches, and picking up shells. And picking up where we left off. (Rob is always a part of these conversations.)
We sometimes disagree. I once tried to talk Rekha out of parachuting from an airplane. Nor did I think it was a good idea for her to get her nose pierced in India. She tried to talk me out of leaving a job as a full-time columnist with healthcare benefits. This week we had a vigorous debate over semantics.
Both of us still think we were right.
At the moment, Rekha is in our guest room preparing for a Zoom talk to acknowledge International Women’s Day.
We've teeter-tottered our way through the highs and lows of life and will do so as long as we're alive. Of that, I am sure.
I admire both of you! Thanks for sharing this!
Beautiful story Julie. You are such a gifted writer. Sending love and hugs to you both.