Dear Abu,
My flight just landed at the Indira Gandhi International Airport. Today, my blood is not dancing with excitement, as it always does when I inhale my country’s air. Today, your breath is not mixed in my inhale.
I don’t elbow past tired passengers toward the immigration counters, don’t rush to the conveyors to claim my luggage, and don’t rush to the phone booth to hear the thrill in your voice upon hearing mine, a reward for my 22-hour long journey.
You always emptied the moth-filled lamp at the house entrance of the dead wings and feet, to make it shine bright for my arrival. You swept and washed the verandah, pruned the rosebush as if I were an honorable guest. You stood at the gate, with a torch in your hand, shining its light on each taxi and rickshaw that appeared on the street, disappointed when they sped past you. Your next stop was the terrace to get a panoramic view of the street while Ammi cautioned you from the kitchen to watch your step up the stairs.
That’s where I found you, leaning against the parapet. You shouted my name and instructions to Ammi for making chai, and hurried down the stairs to pay the cab driver, forgetting to take the change. You insisted on carrying my bag inside; I gulped at the diminishing flesh on your arm, year after year. After latching the gate shut, you kissed me on the forehead, your lips cold from being outside.
Today, I don’t stop at the duty-free to buy a Toblerone for you. I pull my bag and body out of the airport toward the taxi stand, one heavy step at a time, gravity forceful as it never was.
At the house, I’ll pay the driver and ring the doorbell beside your nameplate. Ammi will not hear it the first time amid the clatter of pots and pans as she prepares dinner. I’ll press the buzzer again. She’ll peek from the window, and then emerge, wiping her hands on her tunic, and cry in my arms.
A personal piece, very close to my heart, was published in May 2020 by Pidgeon Holes. Read the full piece here.
