Читать книгу All Inclusive - Farzana Doctor - Страница 13

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I pocketed Nora’s phone number and deposited my keys on the cluttered dining table. No one was home to bid me farewell that afternoon.

On the way to the airport I jabbered non-stop about my new life in India. I told the driver about my academic job, and joked about how my mother, in that very moment, was searching for my wife. He was an older man, pink from the early summer sun, and a good listener. It was extravagant, but I left him a five-dollar tip.

At Toronto’s Pearson International Airport, I took my place in the long queue and fiddled with my passport and tickets. There were large groups of Indian families, some in Western garb, most dressed semi-formally as though about to attend a fancy party. I wore jeans and a T-shirt, and I’d packed a kurta to change into before landing. After almost half an hour in the snaking lineup, I checked my bags and was lucky enough to get an aisle seat. I hoped there wouldn’t be a bawling baby nearby or a seat-kicking child behind me.

At security, I watched tear-stained goodbyes. Relatives and friends clung to one another, gave good wishes, kissed cheeks. Family clusters split apart as passengers passed through security and their kin remained on the other side of the glass. Many of the travellers were teenagers, students who had likely just finished their term and were on their way to vacations with adoring grandparents. In one family, a father was the only one not travelling, in another, both parents. I wondered what it would be like to send one’s children away, even if only for the summer holidays. Were my parents bereft when they dropped me off five years earlier?

I knew that in less than a day and half, after one stop in London and a connection in Delhi, they would be at the Bombay airport to greet me — my parents, sister, and brother. We’ d have to squeeze into the car as we’ d done since we were youngsters. How much had they changed since I’d left? My younger brother had joined my father’s law firm. My little sister was already twenty-three, a young teacher, and recently engaged. I’d missed all the steps in between the days of their carefree youth and their solid adulthoods.

Thrice an announcer called out a delay and apologized for the inconvenience. The mood at the departure gate turned impatient, skittishness wrinkling the ladies’ silk saris and the men’s polyester suits. The children, oblivious to the adults’ unspoken anxieties, skipped and ran and laughed, the airport an adequate playground. One little girl wore a Brownie uniform, with a dozen badges sewn to her sash. She whirled through the terminal like a dervish, her brown skirt flying up around her thighs.

Dull pain pooled across my forehead from the previous night’s shenanigans, so I used the last of my Canadian currency to purchase aspirin and a cup of tea. I heard the words my mother used to soothe me: fikhar nahi. Don’t worry. I smiled, buoyed by the notion that I’d soon be home, amongst my relations.