Jack
I can hear the distinct whistle in the distance, soft but still ringing in my ears. I feel bodies around me move with urgency, and my eyes widen slightly.
Last call.
I pick up the pace, expertly weaving through the crowd and stumble onto the train. Locals groan with disappointment from the station and I felt their eyes fixed on me as they faded into the scenery.
“That gora man got there before us. Of course he did.” I can hear their thoughts, even now on the train.
I desperately needed to escape the hustle and bustle of London. It was exhausting, claustrophobic. The roads were packed with people commuting to and from work, eyes angled straight ahead, not even acknowledging the people right next to them. I needed a paradise.
My mother had begged me not to go.
“Find yourself a nice, hardworking woman here! There’s really no need to go halfway across the world. I promise you, the women of London have a lot to offer!”
That was exactly the problem, Mama.
My last girlfriend, she wanted too much. It was just uncomfortable. Coming back at night to an empty dinner table, waiting another half an hour until she got off work.
And that distinct musty smell would just never leave.
We would argue till the early hours of the morning, but she would never budge. Surrounded by piles of dirty laundry and littered beer cans, we were hopeless.
But here, it’s different. I smile faintly and sink deeper into my seat, glancing around. Here, I see working husbands, fathers.
The man next to me jolts awake at the sharp music coming from his phone. Snapping it open, he picks it up, annoyance evident in his tone.
And I watch as his eyes soften and he leans back, laughing heartily.
He speaks in what I can only guess is Hindi, and I catch what seems to be “khana”, and “meri jaan”. Must be his wife.
His voice grows faint and my thoughts take center stage, as I imagine what his wife would be like. Kind, soft-spoken and supporting. My hands tremor with excitement as I picture what’s waiting for me. This was definitely the right decision.
I lug my suitcase behind me, grunting softly. I’m finally off the train. The aroma of sugar and cardamom circle around me and welcome me to Ahmdebad. I’m suddenly reminded of how long it's been since I last ate. The food is simple, made by a loving mother’s hand.
My nose takes over and I take a turn to head back to the source of that smell.
“Excuse me, how much for those yellow balls?” I ask politely, enunciating my words slowly.
“Sorry, just give me a second.”
I hear her before I see her. And I fall as soon as I do. Her voice is honey, dripping with patience and amiability. It wraps around me like a hug and draws out the common sense from my brain.
She turns around and oh, how perfect she is. The perfect woman for me.
Her hazel, perceptive eyes. Her sleek, black hair. The way her bangles clink gently as she hands out her sweets.
She is dressed simply. Some unique, exotic looking Indian dress. It’s refreshingly modest.
Our life together will be perfect. I’ll go out in the days, work like a dog, and come back to a feast every night. She’ll keep her hobby making those sweets, so our babies develop acquire the taste for Indian food before it becomes too late.
She hands me a sweet, slender arms reaching out to me. I see a sparkle in her eyes and I can just picture it all. She worships me.
Noor
My fingers brush absent-mindedly against my watch, and I can’t help but steal a glance and grimace. Three hours till I’m home. My phone pings against my leg. Once, twice, thrice. The signature three texts from Papa.
“When are yu hume”
“When are you home?*”
“Love you”
I sigh, shoving it back into the pocket of my kurta. I told him not to overexert his fingers.
Carefully molding the soft laddoo in my palm, I admire the rays of sun bouncing off the sugar syrup that clings to the boondis. That scent… it helps me turn those 3 hours into 2 just a little bit faster
Sure enough, the bright white digits read 6:47, and I start planning which street food to get for Papa on the way back.
He’ll be asleep by now… he sleeps like a dog, my Papa. 16 hours a day. I keep him company, of course, read him my favourite Rabindranath Tagore, J.R. Tolkien. “What strange names”, he had giggled, as we went through The Hobbit. You would never tell he was bedridden, the way he spun around the house in his wheelchair when he got a sugar rush from my famous laddoos.
Those joyful moments grew fewer as his condition got worse. I no longer hear his twinkling laugh echoing through the park when he plays marbles with the children. Mr. Deshmukh stopped coming around to watch the news. I want to spend every moment I have with Papa. But there isn’t much time to spare when you’re the sole breadwinner of the family.
A man walks past me, the shiny guitar case prominent over his shoulder. He’s humming a distinct tune and I flutter my eyes shut, letting the notes carry me with him. To my dream. Standing up there on the stage, letting the crowd’s endorphins take me over.
A rude, distinctly British voice snaps my eyes open. He’s asking for a “yellow ball”.
“Sorry, just give me a second.”
I turn around, glancing at the varied array of “yellow balls”, and cock an eyebrow.
He isn’t specifying what he wants, so I make the logical assumption that he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if I gave him a pani puri instead.
Another buzz in my kurta which I lean down to check quickly.
“Let’s watch a movie today. I’m feeling up to it.”
Chuckling slightly, I hand the man his laddoo. In the distance, I can almost see my father smiling at me proudly. For him, I would give up my dream all over again. Because after these 8 long hours, I’m back in his arms.
And he says he’s proud of his modern daughter.