in New Delhi shortly. Thank you.”
My stomach tightened as the airplane descended. So far the flight had been unbearable, and as the plane now began its landing, my impatience grew. Massaging the back of my stiff neck didn’t do much for the discomfort. It must have been over sixteen hours since we’d departed. Thankfully, I had a window seat with no one beside me. The flight wasn’t as packed as I had feared it would be.
“Shit—I hate planes. Why did I have to come all this way?” I complained as I stretched out my arms. The answer, however, was resting on my lap. “Oops. Sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to swear again. I can’t wait to get off this plane. You know how I . . .” my voice trailed off.
I realized that I wasn’t speaking to a real person. Instead I was speaking to a box of ashes. It had been a painful experience collecting his urn from the funeral home. My mother’s strong façade had fallen apart as soon as she’d laid eyes upon the urn. Soon after, both my sister and mother had become faint, and so of course, swallowing my emotions, I’d stepped forward and completed the formalities.
Now, however, as I held my father’s urn, I couldn’t help but remember a man who had chased after me during my toddler days; a man who’d picked me up and carried me on his shoulders when I couldn’t walk any further; a man who was very much alive and excited for life and his children. That man was now nothing more than ashes, tied in a bag, secured in a wooden box and placed in a suede emerald sack.
“You did love us, right, Daddy? But, then why did you lie all of these years? And especially when you knew I had found that photo. Why didn’t you say anything then? It would have changed things, changed the way I ended things . . .”
A sea of lights lit up the late-night cityscape below. As the plane glided towards the runway, the crowded streets became more visible. The plane gave a bit of a jolt as it touched down on the tarmac. Just as it came to a stop, I took a deep breath. Here we go.
As soon as I stepped off the plane, I was engulfed in thick smog that carried a rank smell, as if there were month-old dirty socks in every pocket of Delhi. If that wasn’t bad enough, the heat was excruciating. It was like walking into an oven.
Well, this is going to take some getting used to! I thought as I made my way towards the baggage collection area.
While collecting my bags, I noticed that I was being stared at quite a bit. Walking towards the exit, I realized I was still drawing a lot of attention. I usually am quite pleased to attract attention, but the constant stares were admittedly a bit unnerving. I looked down, trying to see if there was something wrong with my clothes or if something was out of place, but there wasn’t, so I just moved on. I desperately hoped my ride was waiting for me.
Once outside, I scanned the curious faces in the crowded gated area through which all arrivals had to pass after collecting their bags. It was mostly men in the crowd. I could barely spot any women. They were shouting out names, smiling and waving at their relatives. Eventually my gaze landed on a short, skinny, dark-complexioned man with large round eyes. He was holding a sign that read: Esha Kaur Sidhu—Canada.
“Kaur? Great, I’m not even out of the airport yet, and they’re already turning me into a full-fledged Sikh . . . Indian . . . whatever!” I walked up to the man with the sign, and he looked relieved that he had finally found me. I smiled and offered my hand. “Hi, I’m Esha. Just simple Esha, not EEE-sha, but like the sound of an ‘a’, okay, Esha. And please no Kaur, okay?”
He eyed my offered hand nervously, simply nodded and said, “Hello, ma’am. I am Chotu, the family driver.”
“Chotu? Is that your full name?” I asked in Punjabi as I took my hand back. As expected, he didn’t speak English.
“No, ma’am. It is Chandrasheiker Singh. Everybody calls me Chotu, well, because as you can see, I am not so very tall. It is since childhood. Just Chotu,” he said smiling, clearly pleased that I had taken interest in his name. I followed him to a medium-sized white car in the airport parking lot. The stares from passersby still had not ceased.
“So, Chotu, why is it that wherever I pass, people are staring at me?”
Chotu found this funny. “Oh, ma’am, do not worry too much about it. You are a very fair-looking young woman. It is only normal that they will stare at a foreigner such as yourself.”
“I see. So, uh . . . where’s the family? I mean, I thought Ekant would come to collect me.”
“Sir was busy with business, so he sent me to receive you. The family is eagerly awaiting your arrival at home. It is the first time we are having a foreign guest visit. Everyone is very excited to see you, but also very sad to hear about your father.” Chotu lowered his gaze to the urn held tightly in my hands.
“Yeah, me too,” I sighed as I climbed into the backseat and he loaded up my baggage.
The drive to the house didn’t take very long. After the time it had taken to get through customs, collect my bags and exit the airport, it had gotten pretty late, almost midnight. Therefore, as Chotu explained, the streets now were clear for a smooth, traffic-free drive.
I rolled down my window, hoping to feel a breeze. The humidity was making my hair frizz, so I tied it back. The last thing I should do is show up looking like a crazy bag lady. I straightened my clothes and tried to make myself look presentable. I did the best I could from the backseat of the car and in such poor light. A spritz of perfume and the cool feel of lotion on my arms and face was incredibly refreshing, especially in this smoggy atmosphere.
Besides the smog, New Delhi didn’t appear to be so bad. It was quite dark, but the roads were paved, and there were traffic lights, even though I realized my driver wasn’t exactly paying any attention to them, or to the speed limit, if there was any. As yet, I hadn’t seen a sign with a limit on it.
“That, ma’am, is India Gate. Many foreigners come here to take pictures of it.” Chotu pointed towards a massive arch-like monument that had been erected in a spacious road crossing. It really did look like a gate, but it was enormous. It was lit up in the dead of night. Such a simple structure, yet so beautiful.
“What’s this gate for, Chotu?” I asked, curious to know why anyone would want to build a gate as a monument.
“It is actually a war memorial for the Indians who gave their life in the First World War and in the Afghan wars. It is a good thing to remember those who have died to protect others.”
“It’s beautiful,” I replied as it fell behind us in the distance.
A few more minutes passed, then we pulled into a different neighbourhood. Each house had a gate in front, and each was different from the next in both size and shape, but it was difficult to see them properly in the dark. The bright city lights had disappeared, and right now the only source of light was from the moon. Chotu stopped in front of a double gate and honked the horn until there was movement behind it, and eventually it swung open. Once in the courtyard, he cut the engine. Slowly climbing out of the car, I examined my surroundings. It was an open courtyard with a balcony running all the way around the second floor of the house. The ground was cement, as were the walls. There was a combination of screen doors and wooden doors on every side, leading to what I assumed were bedrooms and sitting areas. Right by the front gate, however, a strange dark shadow caught my eye. As I looked closer I realized it was . . . a . . . a cow. Why was there a cow in the courtyard of the house?
“Chotu! Chotu, you have returned safely?” A slightly overweight old woman of medium
