Published: October 16, 2008

We took my best friend’s cousin, who had flown in from south India, out to a trendy Chinese restaurant; my friend wanted to take her to all the fun places we go to on the weekend, partly to show her a good time and partly to show off. One of my suitemates was interested in the new girl. “Now, how far are you from Bombay? I’ve never been to India.” Some of the bean curd went up my nose. I’ve never been to India. She said it with such ease, as though all Americans, forget Indians, are expected to have been to India at least once, a simple trip that she should have made but neglected to. I heaved a sigh, and blew the bean curd out of my nose.

The plight of all immigrants, though perhaps not Canadians, is the visit back home. Going to India has always taken months of mental preparation. It is awaited with both dread and great excitement. It is a return to the past, but a past that has changed, evolved, a past that has no more room for deserters. And, if you’ve gotten fat, people notice.

As soon as we book the tickets, every Saturday for about two months my mother will journey to CVS, Kmart and Dollar Dreams to find trinkets for the family with whom we are not close, who have children we don’t know exist, because they will inevitably drop by my grandmother’s house if they know we have flown in from America. With many years and different citizenships and a dusty carpet between them, the only thing in common between my parents and my mother’s father’s cousin’s son’s in-laws is the simple innocence of a past both once knew. With reluctance, the distant family will allow my parents to slip back into their old clothing, their old facial expressions, their old lives. And my sister and I play cards with the kids, whom we call our cousins even though they are as close to us as the homeless man who sleeps outside Fordham.

My father revels in the past, but only when it is a 20-hour plane flight away. The cousins with whom he played Cricket, slept on terraces in the summer, and read Archie comics are old and dispersed throughout the world. The spicy, greasy roadside food no longer cooperates with his stomach; and like my sister and I, my father drinks boiled or bottled water only. His mother’s voice has traces of an old woman, and she uses less salt in her food. He remembers India through a haze, and as soon as he steps off the plane, the illusion is dispelled and he loses balance.

Still, my mother and father manage to grasp reality after a few days, and though evolved, their memories of places and people remain unchanged. And my sister and I become lost in a new world, as we swelter estranged from our parents, who seem to sit straighter, appear taller, and demand a sense of authority as they walk the streets of their old home.

We all try to lose weight before we depart. Refusing food is an insult, and we would rather throw up after eating too many rotis than offend my aging grandmother. We are usually partly to blame, however, for our insatiable appetites. The food is so flavorsome that we eat as though it is the Last Supper; the world will come to an end, and heaven forbid we don’t get our fair share of saag paneer. Inevitably, we will have gained about 40 percent of our body weight when we come back to the States. After dinner, my mother’s aunts will let her know they think she has gained weight, in case we were blind, delusional, or required their input at all. They fatten us up to eat us alive.

The commute is so long it is not worth making unless we stay there for a month, if not forever. We travel from Newark Airport to some glorious place in Europe, where we will buy postcards and chocolates in the airport to pretend we are worldly travelers. Then, we are pushed, shoved and elbowed by other Indians as we all file onto the same flight, going from the European city to Bombay. Babies cry, mothers take out potatoes wrapped in tin foil, fathers swap stories with other fathers about business, their childhood, the weather. The young, smiling stewardess will wink and give my mother two packets of sugar when she asks for one. My sister and I try falling asleep as the little Sikh brothers violently kick at the backs of our seats. My father reads P.G. Wodehouse, while really contemplating how he will manage to sneak in alcohol, forbidden in our home state. We then take a flight from Bombay to my mother’s house. The weather will be stormy and she will clutch my hand, to the point where I have lost feeling, and recite prayers she never believed in. My sister looks deathly pale, and my father takes her temperature and then curses out the stewardess for not having enough Tylenol in the First Aid kit. The same Indians who bruised us trying to get to the front of the line will offer my sister any aspirin they have, as well as some M&Ms to make her feel better. The old lady across the aisle wakes up to the commotion, and then strokes my sister’s hair, repeating again and again, “such fair skin, so pretty!” Everyone in the compartment seems to be giggling, even as some children are whining. Fathers cannot seem to wipe the goofy grins on their faces. We all smile at each other, knowingly. There are only about 20 minutes left in the air.

With suitcases bigger than my sister, hairdos that couldn’t survive the flight, and stale breath, we walk outside in the summer night, and India greets us with the indescribably sweet smell of Queen of the Night, unrelenting mosquitoes, and hobos who sit idly behind the gates, just for the show. As though we are walking on the Red Carpet, people are screaming and holding out their hands past the rope, and guards arbitrarily blow whistles and push the natives away. My contacts almost dried out, I hardly realize that the dark man with the moustache who has been smiling at me for the past five minutes is actually my cousin, who was only 10 years old in my head. My mother screams and cries and drops her luggage on my foot, as she spots her sister and mother. Random servants run to pick up her luggage and lead me to our car. We can all manage to fit in one car, but there are four that come to pick us up, because people are eager to accompany my grandfather to the airport, at 4 in the morning.

My grandmother squeezes my sister tight, and both cannot comprehend how much older the other has gotten. I continue to massage my foot as I look out the window. Cows sleep in the middle of the road, and except for a few vehicles speeding past us, the city is mostly empty. By the time we get back to my grandmother’s home, it has started to get light out. She makes tea and gives us biscuits. We hardly take a bite before we pass out, crumbs and saliva dribbling down our chins. And then we dream absurd dreams, of cows alongside Hummers, the sun against a backdrop of stars, pizza and pakoras, and the smell of our freshly mowed suburban lawn laden with the sweet Indian flowers from the airport. We are neither here nor there, and all we can do is sleep.

I looked at my suitemate. “Don’t feel bad, Christine. I’ve never been to Chicago.”