Undefinable Love – Reflections on The Mystery of Connection

I spent most of those two weeks living with him in his elder care facility, helping him settle in. I fell into his daily routines: getting up at dawn, eating in the communal dining room, and figuring out what he needed to make this new place feel like home.

I walked the halls, smiling politely and feeling a little nervous about engaging with people. My Gujarati is functional, but my grammar and vocabulary are limited. I also felt like I stood out, clearly more American in not only my language but also my mannerisms and appearance.

My interactions might have stayed at this level had we not arrived during Navratri, the nine nights of the goddess.

Each night was celebrated with garba, a traditional dance in which people clap and move in a circular rhythm. People dress up for the festivities, which typically continue into the early hours of the morning.

But we were in an elder care facility, where the celebrations were scheduled for 8–10 p.m. in the common hall, with young women nursing students invited to join in the dancing. I was a little hesitant to attend, not knowing what to expect and knowing I would stand out. But I wanted my father to experience all the benefits of his new home, and I wanted to dance.

On the first night, I walked into the room. Although I thought I was dressed modestly, I quickly realized I was dressed more formally than anyone else there. As the music started, the young women, who also seemed a little nervous, began moving into a circle. I sat and watched for a while until one of the older women motioned for me to join.

In that moment, I heard two voices within me.

One said, Stay small and try to hide. The other said, Screw it. You know you stand out, so just go out there and allow the love and joy to flow through you.

I realized I could spend the evening managing how I was perceived, trying to fit in or disappear into the background. Or I could accept that I was different and let myself be fully present. I didn’t need to resolve that difference before I could connect. I just needed to be willing to step into the circle.

And in that moment, I felt a sizzling shift in energy and perspective. I wanted to get to know everyone, despite our differences and the language barriers. So I danced. And one thing I do know how to do is move.

I could sense that others were drawn to my energy, some with a sense of intrigue. By the end of the evening, sweaty and exhilarated, I made a vow to make connections.

And that is where the real magic began to unfold.

A 94-year-old woman, with no remaining family nearby, was bursting with beauty and effervescence. She told me how she still loved to sing and play music, and how grateful she felt every day simply to exist.

A mysterious woman who wore only saffron-colored saris caught my attention. One day, when we met in the courtyard, she invited me to her room and told me about the many ways she expressed devotion and embodied feminine energy. Our conversation helped me connect some of my own experiences to the wisdom of my ancestors.

On another occasion, I went to borrow something from a woman and noticed trophies in her room. Following my curiosity, I asked her about them. She revealed that she wrote poetry and read me some of her exquisite haikus in Hindi. In return, I gave her my book.

Connection after connection unfolded, with the older women adopting me as a daughter and the younger ones welcoming me as a sister.

One of the women who worked in the kitchen would hold my hands and look into my eyes with a deeply open heart. Another woman, in her 60s, seemed to know everything that was happening in the facility. We grew so close that, with tears in my eyes, I asked her to look after my father in the ways I wouldn’t be able to from thousands of miles away.

Most of my deep connections were with women, but I felt this shared energy with the men at the home, too. The head of the facility was especially helpful and welcoming, and I felt a connection with him through our shared vision and sense of purpose. With the other men, connection often took simpler forms—a smile, a warm exchange, a moment of mutual recognition. Each encounter had its own quality, yet each contributed to the feeling of belonging that was gradually unfolding.

Mind you, in all these conversations, I couldn’t understand everything being said because of differences in dialect and my own hearing impairment. And they couldn’t understand everything I was saying because of my limited grammar and vocabulary.

Yet something profound was weaving between us.

There were moments when I felt deeply connected to someone whose words I could barely understand. I didn’t need to explain who I was or establish why I mattered. Through a touch, a gaze, a shared smile, or the willingness to listen, something in us seemed to recognize one another before the mind could make sense of it.

The connection was something I felt rather than something I could explain, as expressed in this poem.

Undefinable Love

-Tejal Tarro

During our daily phone calls, my father shares stories of people asking about me and saying they miss me.

I miss them, too.

Some I may see only during future visits to India. Others I may never see again. But that doesn’t diminish their importance to me.

I had gone to India to help my father find a home in a place that was no longer entirely familiar to him. I hadn’t expected to discover a sense of belonging of my own, among people who were strangers to me just days before. In helping him settle into his new life, I found myself becoming part of a community, welcomed into relationships that transcended the usual boundaries of language, culture, and familiarity.

As the poem suggests, I, like many of us, have been conditioned to believe that love must fit within certain social constructs—family, partner, friend—to be considered important. We learn that there are limits to how deeply we are allowed to feel for others, depending on the roles we occupy and the rules that govern our relationships.

In the ordinary exchanges of our days, especially with those who fall outside the circle of people we typically prioritize, I often feel a protective layer of superficiality covering our vulnerability. We can be so focused on where someone fits in our lives that we miss what is actually unfolding between us.

But my heart doesn’t seem to work that way anymore.

Perhaps I’m less interested now in deciding what a connection means, where it belongs, or whether it will last. I want to be more available to what is actually happening between us. To let a moment matter without needing to know what it will become, or whether it will become anything at all.

My heart craves these connections. Even in brief encounters, when hearts are open, there can be an undeniable imprint of love upon our souls.

And for some reason—perhaps the portal of Navratri, perhaps being in the company of wise elders—all our hearts seemed to open. Together, we created a kind of magic that continues to nourish me today.

I don’t know whether this experience taught me something new about love or gave me permission to live in a way my heart already knew was possible. Perhaps it was both. For a little while, I stepped beyond the familiar ways of defining myself and others, and discovered what could happen when I allowed connection to unfold without needing to name or contain it.

What would happen if we allowed ourselves to experience more undefinable love?