By the time he turned his head around to thank her, after the flight attendant had pushed his tray-table down and set his dinner on it, the owner of the voice had sunk from view. He stared at the tray with its foil-wrapped dinner and its small packs and plastic cups covered with film. He had no wish to eat anything at this odd hour. But Gopi had scared him about his sugar levels going down. ‘Eat whatever they give you, you have a long wait between planes at Frankfurt, and may not get anything to eat there. It’ll be expensive, too. If they give you bread or some such thing, keep a bit of it for later.’
His fingers shook a little as he tried to get the small see-through bag with spoon, fork and knife in it open. His neighbours had almost reached the end of their meal and were waiting for their drinks. He could feel them looking at his food as he got the foil top off. In the container lay an oily looking vegetable pulao topped with raisins and matched with a viscous black bean dal and an incongruous carrot curry, south Indian style. What a strange combination, like the spreads at weddings these days, with north Indian and south Indian dishes all mixed up. Soon, they would probably serve noodles and pizza on banana leaves along with sambar and rasam. He found the paper napkin and laid it across his lap. Wouldn’t do to make a mess. He pushed the raisins to one side with his fork and picked at his food. He switched to the spoon. He glanced at the small sealed tub on the side and realized with relief that it contained curd. Its fused-on top with the German label refused to peel off. He was forced to ask the woman sitting next to him for help. She pulled off the top in one expert move with her tubby diamond-ringed fingers and put it back on his tray, hardly glancing his way. He mumbled his thanks.
How was he going to manage three months in a foreign land? True, he was visiting Kavita, she would take care of him, they probably ate traditional food at home, and all his America-returned relations had been only too happy to show off their knowledge of buttermilk and yoghurt brands that would suit him; there were even Indian stores that would sell you parupu podi and pickled sarsaparilla, so they said.
But there must have been a reason why he had not visited America in the twelve years that Kavita had been there. She had never really invited them to visit, that was true. Her mother and father had assumed that her life there was something apart, nothing to do with them except for a minor genetic accident, and had gone along with it, glad of any emotional crumbs she threw their way, the occasional phone call or letter, the sporadic bank transfer. They would listen to their neighbours, the Senguptas, showing off about how their son in Seattle and daughter in New Orleans called them every week, on Saturday evening, without looking at each other. They had never discussed it. What had been there to discuss?
Of course, nowadays it all seemed easier, with Kavita sending email on Gopi’s computer. He had had news of Sunny’s kindergarten graduation, which he received with bewildered gladness. He had looked closely at pictures of his first-born, her husband and son, their house, their cars, the quiet green street they lived on. And which ‘US-returned’ traveller didn’t go on and on about the great American landmarks favoured by all Indian tourists, Niagara and Golden Gate and the Statue of Liberty?
But it was difficult to know what their life was really like, how the air moved, and snow looked, and the moon – how odd – it was the very same moon – hung in the sky. How his grandson felt. He could not even tell any more how Kavita felt. When she came with her family every few years, it was a crowd in Gopi and Leela’s hot little apartment, and everyone was secretly happy when the visit ended.
All of a sudden, Kavita had unaccountably insisted that he come. He had demurred, citing age, ill-health, the inhumanly long plane journey. She had cut him short.
‘Appa, sixty-nine is no age! You’re not even that yet. You Indians, you should see the people here, driving about, even getting married in their eighties and nineties. I’ll organize the sponsorship papers, send you a ticket, pay for everything. All you have to do is get on the plane and come! Amma has been gone for over a year. No use moping about in Madras.’
He had felt a strange sense of betrayal towards his dead wife. How she had made lists of things she would take Kavita, special foods that her daughter had missed in the years she had been away, childhood favourites, and things Saras had wanted her grandson to enjoy, waiting for the invitation that never came. At the start of each summer, ever hopeful, she had filled her ceramic jadis with narthanga urga and squeezed out sago vadams, leaving them to dry on an old sheet on the terrace, worrying all day about greedy crows and squirrels. If only she were here now! She would have hardly needed a plane to take her to America.
He put the small sealed bottle of water into the pouch in front of him before the dinner tray was taken away. It was two o’clock India time, his watch said. What time would it be in Frankfurt? The cabin lights were switched off once more. People huddled beneath their thin blankets. He sat staring into the darkness, holding his blanket in his lap.
Why had he agreed to go? One travelled when one was young, limber, swift of mind and unafraid of the new, when being happy was easier, natural even. Here he was, leaving behind everything he had ever known, going to a daughter long lost to them, bound to her without understanding quite how. He moved his feet in his stiff new Bata brown corduroy slip-ons, stretched them out a little into the aisle. Leela had asked the travel agent to make sure that he got that seat, worried about poor circulation and blood clots. He smiled a little, thinking of her instructions. Get up every once in a while, move your feet. Drink lots of water. He opened the small bottle of water and poured a little down his throat without letting the rim touch his lips.
It grew chill. He spread the narrow blanket on himself, longing for the comfort of his bed in his son’s house, even the city’s clammy embrace. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of the worries that lay ahead: negotiating the transit airport, filling out forms, fielding the questions of the immigration people. He had heard so many nightmare stories of people being turned away. Where would they go? What if they had a return ticket booked for months later and not much money on them, like him? He had emptied out his savings account to pay for medical insurance and the few things he had needed: the new shoes, a heavy knitted pullover from Junus Sait in Town, a small zipped brown leather bag to carry his papers, a lightweight khaki-green nylon suitcase, a few small gifts. Kavita had said she would take care of everything, it was true. But Gopi had not been happy about his travelling with no money at all, and which schoolteacher, that too retired, owned a credit card? Gopi himself didn’t have one. His son had given him a hundred dollars, god knows how. What was that in rupees? He shook his head. No point in dwelling on things one had no control over. He forced his mind to go blank and waited for sleep.
The plane landed in Frankfurt early in the morning, the airport stretched out like a giant spider. At the immigration, dour German officers scanned everyone’s papers and faces as though they were criminals enlarged. When he stepped into the intestines of the airport, he felt as though he were in Madras Central, there were so many people. He was in Terminal A. He had to get to Terminal C to take the flight to Chicago, so the large electronic screens said. There were a couple of hours to go, so he sat down in an alcove with tables and chairs arranged café-style. A noisy Indian family was at the next table. Through the glass windows, he could see planes parked in all directions. He had already washed up on the plane, sticking to what was familiar. What he needed was a strong cup of coffee. Would they understand his English? How much would it cost in dollars? He decided to go without.
A young Indian woman walked past him. She caught his eye, and half-smiled.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Was your dinner edible?’
He recognized her voice at once. It was her dinner that he had eaten on the plane.
‘I couldn’t thank you last night,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you weren’t hungry?’
‘I can’t stand the food on planes,’ she said. ‘Makes me sick, the smell. I just skip all meals.’
‘I would have preferred that myself. But my son warned me not to let my sugar levels plummet,’ he said.
‘Are you going to visit him?’
‘No, no, he’s in Madras. I’m visiting my daughter who lives near Chicago.’
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? I was just going to get some.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I…’
She was off before he could stop her.
‘Tell me how much,’ he said when she came back with two steaming paper cups.
‘Here, there’s no sugar in this one. It’s very hot, watch out.’ She placed it on the table.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Help me with this money, please. Take whatever it cost.’ He extracted the hundred-dollar note and held it out to her.
‘No, no,’ she said, pushing the money back at him. ‘Come on, it’s just a cup of coffee…’
It was useless to protest. ‘Thank you. Very kind.’
‘I’m Tara, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand. Something about her clear-eyed look reminded him of a young Kavita. She was older than he had first thought, probably in her mid-to-late thirties.
He shook her hand. ‘C.L. Narayan, retired high-school maths teacher.’
‘A teacher! How wonderful, sir. I’m a writer of textbooks myself.’
‘Maths textbooks?’ he said.
‘No, no, no!’ she said, laughing. ‘Far from it. I stick safely to the humanities. Primary school. What plane are you on?’
He told her.
‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘I’m on the same flight, then on to Louisville. We need to get a train to Terminal C, so that man in the red coat tells me, but there’s plenty of time.’
He hesitated. ‘In Chicago, may I walk through immigration with you? I’m a little worried about it. This is my first trip out of India.’
She laughed again. ‘Sure. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine!’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Shall we set off then?’ she asked, glancing at her watch. ‘If we leave now, we won’t have to rush.’