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One evening daddy comes home and asks me to go on
a drive with him. We park at our usual spot at Nariman Point and then
sit on the concrete wall overlooking the water. It is a cool, windy
night and the place is filled with couples out on an evening stroll,
infants pestering their parents to buy them a balloon from the
balloonwalla and old men walking their dogs.

‘I want to tell you something,' dad is
saying. ‘And I want you to remember what I say to you tonight.'

I brace myself for what I think is coming—another
lecture about being too impulsive and trusting, the extraction of yet
another promise to never drink in public.

But he is saying something quite different. ‘You
are travelling further than any member of our family has ever
travelled,' he says. ‘Even I, with all my travels have
never been that far. But that is correct—each generation should
go further and fly higher than the last. I am allowing you to go
because you once told me that it will make you happy to study in
America. You remember? Bas, in that moment I made up my mind. Many of
my friends are already telling me that I'm mad to let my own
child go so far away. But I have always lectured you to have dreams
and then to work to realize them. So how can I stop you now? Of
course, if even one baal on your head is injured, I will never
forgive myself. And when you go, I will lose not only my daughter but
my best friend.'

He stops and waits for the lump in his throat to
dissolve. I stare wordlessly at the tossing sea, not daring to say a
word until I can control my own emotions.

‘There is something I want from you,'
he continues. ‘A promise.'

Here it is. ‘Of course, daddy,' I say.
‘Anything you want.'

‘Okay. I want you to promise me that if you
are unhappy after getting there, if someone treats you shabbily or
looks at you funny—after all, darling, you know how these
Westerners with their superiority complex can look down on us—but
if anybody says or does anything to make you feel small, you just
come right back to Bombay. Don't

worry about air-fare, pride, what people will
say—nothing. I will defend you against all that. There is no
shame in having tried something and changing your mind. That is not
failure.'

I stare at him speechlessly, awed by the fact that
in the midst of his own sorrow, in the middle of all the
hustle-bustle, he has found time to think about all this.

‘Daddy,' I say and then I have to
stop. ‘Daddy, I…love you so much. I can't even
begin to…'

He smiles and even though it is dark I see so much
kindness and love in his eyes, it takes my breath away. I am not
worthy of this, I think. I am not good enough for the love of this
man.

‘I know, sweetheart,' he says. ‘I
know.'

I put my arm around his neck. We sit there for the
longest time, staring at the water pounding against the black rocks,
feeling its spray against our faces. Don't ever let me forget
this evening, I whisper to the sea. Don't ever let me forget
how loved I am.

The foam on the surface of the black water hisses
as it hits the rocks.

T
IME TO LEAVE FOR THE airport. But how? How
to take that first step out of the apartment? This, after all, is the
only home I've ever known, the house where I've spent the
first twenty-one years of my life. These neighbours who, with their
gossip, their nosiness, and their unsolicited advice once made my
life so miserable, are also the same people who have showered me with
gifts and blessings the last few weeks. Now, although it's
eleven p.m., the lights in almost every apartment in the building are
still on. They are all staying up to see me off.

‘Come on, sweetheart,' dad says for
the third time. ‘We are already late for the airport.'

Still, I linger. Mehroo ushers me before the small
altar that has photographs of Babu and my grandparents. ‘Ask
them for their blessings,' she says. ‘Ask them to watch
over you. And come back to us soon, accha?' Overcome by her own
words, she hugs me tightly and then starts sobbing softly. I hold on
to her. ‘It's only two years, Mehroofui,' I say,
not believing my own words. ‘The time will go by so quickly.
And if I can finish my degree even faster than two years, I will.'

Dad walks into the kitchen. ‘No tears, no
tears,' he says to Mehroo. ‘Today is a happy day.'
But his voice is hoarse and he must suddenly blow his nose.

It was dad's idea to have a small party
earlier this evening.

It was a good idea. Having close relatives like
Mani aunty and her family over had kept the atmosphere relatively
light. As always, I played the bartender, refilling everybody's
glasses, pouring myself a stiff drink when no one was looking.

Dad had opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker that he
had saved for ‘a special occasion'. But even the alcohol
is not helping me tonight, not giving me the courage to cross the
threshold of the apartment and head down the stairs.

Mani aunty comes to my rescue. ‘Come on,'
she says, with her characteristic blend of faux sternness and humour.
‘The sooner we can drop you off at the airport, the sooner we
can all go home and sleep. You know me—I need my beauty sleep.'

Everybody laughs more heartily than the joke
requires. But things have been set in motion. The two men from the
factory who have been squatting on the landing enter the apartment
and carry my two suitcases down the stairs. As if some invisible
switch has gone on, doors to various apartments fling open and
groggy-looking neighbours stand in their doorways. I bend down to
kiss Ronnie, my thirteen-year-old golden cocker spaniel, knowing that
I may never see him again. ‘Bye, Ronnie,'

I say. ‘You be a good boy, okay? No pulling
on your chain when Freny kaki walks you.' He whines and licks
my face.

My family gathers around me. Although they are all
coming to the airport, it is understood that this will be the only
opportunity for unfettered demonstrations of love. And so it is: Long
hugs, tight as a pair of jeans. Kisses the size of Kashmiri apples.

Promises extracted, like teeth at a dentist's
office. Promises to write daily. To call home once a week. To not
marry a foreigner.

To not develop an accent. To not forget them. To
return immediately, by hook or by crook, if there is a war or
something, God forbid. To let them know if I need anything, any time.

Love pouring like sweat out of their faces. Words,
sweet as chocolates, tumbling out of their mouths. What sort of fool
walks away from this much love?

We start going down the stairs, dad on my right,
his protective arm around my shoulder. I will my shoulders not to
shake in grief. At all costs, none of them must know how deeply grief
is slashing my body. They must think I am happy, excited to be going.
That is the only way this night will be bearable for them.

We stop every few feet to say goodbye to the
neighbours.

The ones who have known me from the day of my
birth, kiss me, hold me close to them, even pinch my cheeks. The
newer neighbours shake my hand and say, ‘Best of luck.'
The older ones bless me, ask me to make my mummy-daddy proud. All of
them ask me to never forget them. As if there is any danger of that.

We step into the street. My immediate family piles
into the Ambassador. Mani aunty's family follows in their cream
Fiat while Jesse and Dinshaw look around for a cab. As we turn the
corner, I turn back for one last look at my old apartment building.
Before the sun rises on this street this morning, I will be thousands
of miles away.

Bombay Airport.

Horns blaring, cars parked illegally, coolies
swarming around the vehicles, jostling with each other to earn the
right to carry the bulging suitcases of the passengers.

And the crowds. Families of twelve to fifteen
people hover round the garlanded traveller. Among the Hindu families,
there is much feet touching and head bowing and many blessings
conferred.

My own family has grown subdued. Even dad is
exhausted from the effort of keeping everybody's spirits from
flagging.

We check in my suitcases, go through the other
formalities.

Dinshaw suggests we all move to the nearby café
and have a drink. He and dad go up to the counter and return armed
with Gold Spots and Mangolas and Limcas. We sip our drinks. I can
feel everybody's eyes caressing me. When I rest my hand on the
Formica top of the table, Freny covers it with her own and squeezes
it. ‘Thank you, kaki,' I say.

She squeezes even tighter. ‘You are my
sunshine, my pride and joy,' she whispers. ‘Always keep
my collar up.'

Jesse comes up to me and hands me an envelope. It
says, ‘To be read only after seatbelt is safely fastened.'
We exchange a glance, a million memories ping-ponging between us. I
stuff the letter in my pocket.

There is an oversized clock in the café and
every few minutes I glance at it. I have never been this aware of the
passing of time. I want to scale the wall where the clock hangs and
grab hold of its hand, wrestle with it until it stops its relentless
journey forward.

An airport photographer approaches us as we leave
the café.

Someone decides that there should be a group
picture to commemorate this occasion. I groan inwardly. But I allow
myself to be gripped by multiple hands and made to stand in the
centre, feel all of them shuffle and shift behind me so that we are
in the photographer's frame. Everybody is trying to touch me in
some way—dad puts his arm around my waist, mummy clings to one
arm, Mehroo to the other, and Freny and Roshan stand behind me, a
hand on each shoulder. We are a multi-limbed organism, all greedy
hands and needy fingers, held together by history and memory and
love.

‘Say cheese,' the photographer says
and half-heartedly we comply. I smile the dead smile of someone
trying hard not to look grim. I look grim.

The camera flashes and its fire makes me blink. I
am sure my eyes are half-closed in the picture. But perhaps that is
appropriate. After all, I am trying to will away the reality of what
is going on, what is about to happen.

We move like a funeral procession through the
airport until we get to customs. We stop under a huge sign that says,
‘Only Ticket Holders Allowed Past This Point'. So it ends
here.

I want to say so much, my mouth is full of words
to say, words as sweet and rich as the mangoes I used to stuff in my
mouth during the summer months. And yet…what is left to say
that I haven't said before? What does it mean to say ‘I
love you,' to someone moments before you plunge a knife into
their heart? I have wanted this moment of emancipation, fantasized
about it, salivated over it, would've sold my soul for it. And
here it is. All I have to do now is find the strength to walk away
from this group of people whose love is the only sure thing in my
life. I have chosen this path, created it out of thin air and
imagination. Now, it's time to walk it.

I pull myself away from the last embrace and start
walking.

The airport suddenly seems as large and lonely as
a city. I am a cold-blooded killer, there is blood on my hands. I
have just committed parricide, destroyed the lives of those who have
offered me only love. I have stayed up nights plotting against them,
prayed to the gods to deliver me from their clawing needs. And the
gods have listened. So why do I have this dead, empty spot inside me?

Each step I take moves me further away from them,
creates an ever-expanding galaxy between me and all I know. Even now,
I could turn back. It is not too late. I could stand still, not take
another step. They would come get me. I have choices.

Dad has already told me to rush home if the
slightest thing goes wrong. We could get a refund on the tickets. I
could stay here, get a job at
The Times of India
.

I keep walking.

I turn around to wave. They are getting smaller
and fainter by the second, like the setting sun sinking into the
ocean. I feel myself grow large and demon-like with each step. I
imagine that everybody at the airport can see the monster inside me,
that people will avoid me all my life because this dead spot in my
heart will grow, will travel up my bloodstream until it settles in my
eyes. That I will always be a half-person, living a half-life because
of this unnatural act I am about to commit.

I come from a people for whom geography is
destiny. My family members have not moved even six blocks from where
they were born. Who am I to dare to travel eight thousand miles?
Immigration is an unnatural act, an act born out of frustration and
yearning. Surely nothing good can come out of such an inauspicious
beginning. There is a reason why, for thousands of years, people
stayed put. Yes, the history of hu-mankind is also the history of
migration but that was different—people moved with their
families, their tribes, their villages. This individual taking leave
is a twentieth-century phe-nomenon. There is something non-human
about this.

Oh knock it off, cut the bull crap, drop this
pseudo-historic shit. The fault lies in you. You're not strong
enough to see this through, admit it. Who were you kidding all this
time—all the time and money and energy wasted on begging for
loans and applying for a visa and getting admitted to a college
stupid enough to admit you—all this effort and now, at the
moment of reckoning you can't see it through.