Authors: Shilpi Somaya Gowda
A
SHA STIRS FROM A LIGHT SLEEP WHEN SHE HEARS THE PILOT’S
voice. He announces that they are landing ten minutes earlier than scheduled, little consolation after twelve hours in the air. It is 2:07
A.M.
Mumbai local time, according to the watch she adjusted soon after the stopover in Singapore. This last leg of her journey has felt unbearably long. It has been over twenty-six hours, a full day since she said good-bye to her parents at San Francisco International Airport, and the scene was even worse than she had expected. Her mother began crying as soon as they pulled into the airport. Her parents bickered, as they were doing a lot lately, about where to park and which line to stand in inside the terminal. Her father kept a protective arm on her back the whole time they walked through the airport. When it was time for Asha to go through security, her mother held her tightly, stroking her hair as she used to when Asha was a little girl.
When she turned to go, her dad pressed an envelope into her hand. “It’s probably worthless by now,” he said, smiling, “but you
can make better use of it than I can.” On the other side of the security gate, she opened the envelope and saw it contained dozens of Indian rupee notes in various denominations. She looked back through the maze of metal detectors, tables, and people and saw her mother, still standing in the same place they had embraced. Her mom smiled weakly and waved. Asha waved back and walked away. When she glanced back over her shoulder one last time, her mother was still there.
Asha gathers her things from the two-foot-wide space that has been her home for the past day. Her neck aches from sleeping awkwardly, and her legs feel stiff as she reaches for her backpack. Both her DVD player and iPod ran out of battery power on the way to Singapore. The paperbacks are largely untouched; she didn’t have the attention span for them. She passed the time mindlessly, consuming the meals and movies served up to her with equal disinterest. The only thing she pulled out of her backpack, again and again, was the large envelope stuffed with her father’s family photographs, and the contents of her white marble box. As the hours passed during the flight, and the miles put greater distance between Asha and her parents, she began to feel different. Nervous. Eager.
The two young boys sitting next to her stow their Game Boys, and their mother reappears from a visit to the lavatory, having exchanged her tracksuit for a sari and applied a fresh coat of lipstick. They introduced themselves as the Doshis, back for their annual summer visit after having moved from Bombay to Seattle six years ago “for Mr. Doshi’s work.” When the plane touches down with a slight bump, the passengers cheer and applaud. Asha shuffles off the plane with the others, getting used to the feeling of standing on her legs again.
Mumbai International Airport is complete mayhem. It seems ten other planes have all landed at this unlikely hour, and streams of passengers from all the flights are now converging upon the immi
gration checkpoints at once. Unsure of where to go, Asha follows the Doshis to a line at one end of the large open room. Once they’ve all secured their places in line, Mrs. Doshi turns to Asha. “It used to be much easier when we could stand in that queue,” she says, indicating a much shorter line in front of a desk labeled
INDIAN CITIZENS
. “But last year we had to give up our Indian citizenship. Mr. Doshi’s company sponsored him, and now we must wait in this queue. Always longer, this one.” Mrs. Doshi says this matter-of-factly, as if it is the most notable impact of their decision to move to a new country.
Asha looks around at a sea of brown faces: some lighter, some darker than her own, but these variations are insignificant in light of the realization she has never been around so many Indians before. For the first time in her life, she is not in the minority. As she nears the front of the line, she reaches under her shirt to remove her passport from the travel belt her mother insisted she bring. The immigration officer is a young man, not much older than herself, but his trim mustache and uniform give him an air of authority that makes him seem older.
“Reason for visit,” he says, without inflection. It is a question he asks so many times a day he no longer pretends to be curious.
“I’m a student on a fellowship.” Asha waits for him to flip to the visa in her passport.
“Length of stay?”
“Nine months.”
“What is this address you have provided? Where will you be staying?” he asks, looking up at her for the first time.
“With…family?” Asha says. It feels strange to say this. Though it is technically true, her palms sweat, as if she has just lied to the official.
“I see you were born here,” he says, sounding slightly more interested.
Asha remembers that anomalous part of her American passport that lists
BOMBAY, INDIA
, as her place of birth. “Yes.”
The officer bangs his stamp, leaving a deep purple rectangular bruise on her passport, and hands it back with a new smile beneath his mustache. “Welcome home, madam.”
On the way to baggage claim, it is the aroma that greets her first. It smells salty like the ocean, spicy like an Indian restaurant, and dirty like the New York subway. Asha spots her bags among the other gigantic suitcases that fill the carousel. There are also enormous cardboard boxes wrapped completely in packing tape, Styrofoam coolers with the tightly bound lids, and one unusually large carton promising a small refrigerator inside. Mr. Doshi helps Asha lug her two suitcases off the belt, and motions to a scrawny turbaned man nearby. Just as she starts to wonder why Mr. Doshi summoned someone without a luggage cart to help her, the turbaned man squats to the ground and quickly hoists both bags on top of his head. Holding the stacked bags in place with one hand on either side, he raises his eyebrows slightly at Asha. She understands the subtle gesture to mean she should proceed; he will follow her somehow, through the thick crowd, balancing over a hundred pounds on his head.
As soon as she steps outside, Asha is met with a gust of hot wind. She realizes she has just left an air-conditioned building, though it didn’t seem so inside. Metal barricades hold back throngs of people, at least six deep, who all crane their necks toward the sliding doors through which she has just passed. The crowd is comprised mainly of men who, with their trim mustaches and oiled hair, all look like the immigration officer, only without uniforms. And though they are all presumably waiting for someone in particular to come through that door, Asha feels several eyes lingering on her as she walks.
Every few paces, she turns back to check on the turbaned man behind her, half-expecting her suitcases to land with a thud on the ground after breaking his neck. But each time she looks, he is still
there, his gaunt face expressionless and unmoving except for a slight chewing movement of his jaw. It occurs to Asha she will need to pay this man and wonders if the rupees her father gave her will be sufficient. Her dad told her that one of his brothers, her uncle, would pick her up at the airport. This seemed adequate information at the time, but now, as she scans the crowd of hundreds that line the airport walkway it seems impossible they will find each other. She nears the end of the walkway, and is about to retrieve her uncle’s picture from her backpack when she hears someone yelling her name.
“Asha! A-sha!” A young man waves to her. He has wavy black hair and wears a white cotton shirt revealing his chest hair. She walks over to him. “Hi, Asha! Welcome. I am Nimish. Pankaj
bhai
’s son,” he says with a grin. “Your cousin brother! Come.” He leads her away from the crowd. “Papa is waiting with the car, over here only. Good, you found a coolie.” Nimish beckons to the turbaned man to follow them.
“Nice to meet you, Nimish,” Asha says, following him. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Of course. Dadima wanted to come herself to fetch you, but we told her it wasn’t a good idea, at this hour. The airport is always packed with overseas flights.” Nimish leads Asha and the coolie through a maze of cars, each with its headlights on and a driver leaning out of the window. Asha remembers her father using the term
Dadima
when handing her the receiver on those weekly phone calls to India; she knows it means her grandmother.
“Here’s Papa, come.” Nimish ushers her toward an old-fashioned-looking gray sedan with the name
AMBASSADOR
in metallic script on the back. Asha is a little startled to see the man Nimish calls Papa. Pankaj Uncle looks quite a bit older and has significantly less hair than in the photograph Dad gave her. He is her father’s younger brother, but looks a decade older than him.
“Hello,
dhikri,
” he says, holding his arms out to embrace her.
“Welcome, I am happy to see you.
Bahot khush, heh?
How was your flight?” He holds her face in his hands and smiles broadly. And when he wraps his arm around her shoulders, it is such a familiar sensation that she leans into him. Out of the corner of her eye, Asha sees Nimish opening the trunk for the coolie. She wonders again about the envelope of rupees, but before she can say anything, Nimish has paid the turbaned man, who is already on his way back to the terminal. On the ride, her uncle peppers her with questions.
“How was your journey? Tell me, how is your papa keeping? Why did he not accompany you on this trip? He hasn’t come to visit us in a long time.”
“Papa,” Nimish says, “enough questions. Give her a break. She just got here, she’s tired.”
Asha smiles at her cousin’s defense. She yawns and leans her head against the car window. Outside, she sees the billboards that line the highway, advertising everything from fashion boutiques and Bollywood films, to mutual funds and mobile phone service. At some point, the scene outside the Ambassador shifts from high-rises to housing slums: dilapidated shacks, clothes hung on lines overhead, trash littered everywhere, stray animals wandering about. Asha has seen photos in her preparatory research, but those shots didn’t give her an indication of how enormous the slums were. Mile after mile of the same depressing scenery, even shielded by darkness, begins to give Asha a heavy feeling in her stomach. She recalls her mother’s anxious warnings about visiting such places and considers, for the first time, if she was right.
O
N HER FIRST MORNING IN
M
UMBAI
, A
SHA WAKES EARLIER
than she would prefer to the sounds of the household coming to life. She pulls on her yoga pants from the plane and shuffles out to the main room she passed through briefly the night before. An old woman dressed in a crisp green sari sits at the dining table, drinking from a teacup.
“Good morning,” Asha says.
“Ah, Asha
beti
! Good morning.” The old woman stands up to greet her. “Look at you,” she says, taking both of Asha’s hands in hers. “I hardly recognize you, you’ve grown so much. Do you know me,
beti
? Your father’s mother. Your grandmother. Dadima.”
Dadima is taller than she expected, with impeccable posture. Her face is soft and lined, and her gray hair is pulled into a large bun at the nape of her neck. She wears several thin gold bangles on each wrist, which jangle whenever she moves. Asha is a little unsure how to greet her, but before she can think about it, Dadima pulls her into her arms. Her embrace is warm and comforting and lasts for several moments.
“Come, sit, have some tea. What will you take for breakfast?” Dadima leads Asha by the arm over to the table.
Asha appreciates the bowl of fresh cut mango in front of her. It feels as if she hasn’t eaten anything but airplane food in days. As she sips her hot sweet tea, they talk. She’s surprised at how good Dadima’s English is, though she does occasionally lapse into Gujarati.
“Dadaji, your grandfather, is at the hospital just now, but he will be back for lunch. Oh
beti,
the whole family is so excited to see you. I’ve called them all for lunch this Saturday. I wanted to give you a few days to get settled and adjusted to the time change and whatnot.”
“That sounds good. They’re not expecting me at the
Times
office until next Monday morning,” Asha says. Just speaking these words gives her a thrill, the idea of working at a major international newspaper. After breakfast, Asha retrieves the envelope of photos given to her by her father, and asks Dadima to help name everyone again. Dadima looks through the pictures, laughing periodically at how outdated they are. “Oh, your cousin Jeevan has not been that thin in a long time, though she thinks she still looks just like this!”
Dadima shows Asha how to use the primitive shower in the bathroom, first turning on the hot water tank for ten minutes. Bathing takes more effort than Asha is accustomed to, with the weak water pressure and the ever-shifting temperature. By the time she’s dressed, she is exhausted again and falls asleep on her bed, sleeping right through Dadaji’s visit home for lunch. When she does finally meet her grandfather at dinner, she is taken aback to find him so serene. She expected someone more like her own father, ambitious and assertive. It is her grandmother who appears to have the bigger personality, telling stories, laughing and ordering the servants around with a snap of her fingers. Dadaji sits at the head of the table, eating quietly. When he smiles at one of his wife’s stories, his eyes crinkle up at the corners and he nods his silver-crowned head.
Asha spends her first several days in Mumbai getting acclimated. The jet lag makes her feel as if she’s walking around in a fog. Drowsiness overwhelms her in the middle of the day. The weather is sti
fling—hot and muggy, compelling her to stay indoors most of the time. When she does go outside to accompany Dadima somewhere, she is always shocked by the filth and poverty she sees on the streets, right outside the gates of their building. She holds her breath when they pass the putrid spots and averts her eyes from the beggar children who follow them.
Each time they return to the flat, she immediately heads for the air-conditioning unit in her room and stands in front of it until her body temperature returns to normal. Then there is the Indian food served thrice daily, which is spicier than she’s accustomed to and forces her stomach through its own adjustments. She does not feel like herself, and every aspect of her surroundings—the bread that comes wrapped in small squares, the newspaper the color of pale pink nail polish—reminds her of how far she is from home. She considers calling home for some comfort, but pride holds her back.
F
INALLY
, S
ATURDAY COMES, THE DAY OF THE BIG FAMILY LUNCH.
Asha wears a blue linen sundress and puts on a little blush and mascara. It’s the first time she’s worn makeup since leaving California. In the heat here, it feels like it may melt right off her face, but she does want to look nice. Dadima has been buzzing about the flat all morning, overseeing the servants as they prepare an enormous feast.
Once people start arriving, the stream never ceases. Relatives of all ages rush over to Asha wearing big smiles and pretty saris. They call her by name, embrace her, hold her face in their hands. They remark on how tall she is, her beautiful eyes. Some of them look vaguely familiar, but most do not. They introduce themselves to her in rapid, yet lengthy ways, such as: “Your father’s uncle and my uncle were brothers. We used to play cricket out behind the old house.” Asha tries to remember their names and match them up with the photos but soon realizes this is both improbable and unnecessary.
There are at least thirty people here, and despite the fact she is meeting them for the first time, everyone treats her as if they’ve known her for years.
When the initial rush of meeting everyone is past, people make their way through the buffet table. After getting her plate, Asha sees a group of younger women sitting together who introduced themselves to her earlier as her cousins of one sort or another. Priya, a twenty-something with auburn-highlighted hair and large gold hoop earrings, waves Asha over to join them. “Come, Asha, sit here with us,” she says with a big smile, moving over to make space. “Leave the aunties and uncles to their gossip.”
Asha sits down. “Thanks.”
“You’ve met everybody, no?” Priya says. “That’s Bindu, Meetu, Pushpa, and this is Jeevan. She is our eldest cousin sister, so we must treat her with respect.” Priya winks at the group. Asha remembers Dadima’s comment about Jeevan’s waistline expansion and smiles.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to remember everyone’s names. That’s the beauty of the Indian clan. You can just call everyone Auntie-Uncle,
Bhai-Ben
.” Priya gives a hearty laugh.
“Okay, I understand Auntie and Uncle, but what do the others mean?” Asha says.
“
Bhai-Ben?
” Priya says. “Brother and sister. That’s what we all are.” Priya winks again.
Asha looks around at the dozens of people laughing, talking, eating, all gathered together for her. This family of her father’s, who have known one another their whole lives, grown up together in this city, this very building. This warm, bubbling pool of people that promises to draw her in with its centripetal force, not seeming to care that she shares neither their history nor their blood. She smiles and takes her first bite of the food that has been prepared in her honor. It is delicious.