Page 5

Kiana

Saturday, 17 December 2022 Newark Airport, New York

‘Life is a mess, and you’ve got to appreciate the mess that is life.’

I ’ve decided to skip breakfast and just have a quick cup of coffee from the Italian coffee machine installed in my luxury suite at the Plaza, where I’m staying. But skipping breakfast would be stupid, given that I’m here on an official trip and the company’s footing the hotel bill. The breakfast spread would, no doubt, be huge and delicious and lavish—it is the Plaza after all, and the best part is that I don’t have to pay a single cent from my pocket for anything. But having breakfast all by myself in the restaurant isn’t as exciting really. Drinking fancy Italian coffee while sitting by the enormous French windows that offer a breathtaking view of NYC … that would perhaps be more pacifying.

So, I pour myself a fresh cup of Americano and sit by the window, allowing memories from the past to resurface. I still remember the day I flew from New Delhi to NYC. Though that was some nine years ago, everything about those early days still remains fresh in my mind, as though it all happened just yesterday. When I’d seen this hotel for the very first time, standing tall and proud in all its glory, I had never imagined that I’d ever be able to even step inside and have a cup of coffee here, let alone stay in one of its suites. Clearly, I’ve come a long way.

I started out as an assistant in the photocopying unit back at college. My first income was 10 dollars per hour. Can you imagine? But that’s the most amazing part of being here. No one, literally no one gives a fuck about what you do to earn your bread and butter, whether it’s working in a photocopy unit or at Beta. If you step into any two apartments here in my building, you’ll find that they largely look the same, irrespective of whether one is a doctor’s house and the other a carpenter’s. Back in India though, their lives would’ve been in stark contrast, and their houses would’ve reflected this contrast. That’s the primary reason why moving to the West was the big Indian dream during the last few decades. It promised great opportunities and equal pay for all if you were willing to work hard. You didn’t have to stand out to make it in America. Grit and determination were all you needed.

They say you should grow where you’re planted. But I wished to bloom, and I couldn’t really bloom where I’d been sowed as a seedling. I knew I would have to uproot myself and find a new place to set down roots and become a tree. I did just that and I’ve been growing since then, although sometimes I put in a lot of effort and sometimes I remain oblivious to the process. I’m a little like the only tropical plant in a garden full of temperate shrubs. And that sums up my dating life too! Imagine how challenging pollination would be for this solitary tropical plant! But packing up your entire life in a suitcase and leaving home forever is difficult. It takes courage, and sometimes, heartbreaking circumstances.

If I’d been able to clear even one competitive exam that year, I wouldn’t have had to leave my country. But that’s exactly what didn’t happen. And then, my mother received a call from Uncle Joe.

‘It’s not the end of the world! Just let her appear for the SATs.’ Uncle Joe’s booming voice had reverberated through the speaker of my mother’s battered and outdated second-hand smartphone.

‘We can’t afford to send her abroad, bhai,’ my mother replied, sounding dismal.

‘I’ll take care of her tuition. I was really angry when I came across her biodata in the NRI WhatsApp community. You just married off her elder sister to that boy in Australia. But Harpreet had no other ambitions anyway, so I never said anything. But what’s the harm in sending this studious one to America when I’m offering to pay for it? She really wants to do something with her life!’ Uncle Joe yelled at my mother.

At that moment, my mother realized that I had overheard every single bit of their conversation, so she hurriedly told Uncle Joe that she would call him back later.

I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. What the hell! My mother hadn’t even bothered to tell me once, let alone ask me, before sharing my biodata with the NRI community group on WhatsApp. I had no idea that not clearing the competitive exams meant getting married off to a stranger, in an even stranger land. Then again, that’s the price you paid for being a young woman in my country. And I’ve been paying this price since the day I was born.

My grandmother, who lives with my paternal uncle and his family in the house next to ours, had chosen to stay with them because she was unhappy with my mother for not being able to produce a male offspring. She had literally gone into mourning for ten days after my mother gave birth to a second girl child. And yes, that second girl child was me. My grandmother had hated me from the moment she found out that my chromosomes were XX and not XY. She felt that I was the fruit of the sins her family never committed. She had even suggested putting me up for adoption or just dumping me in an orphanage, but that didn’t happen. She had then brutally tried to force my mother into bearing another kid, all in the hope that it would be an XY gamete. My mother now has poor mental and physical health because of all the birth control pills she secretly gulped down back then, almost treating them like mouth fresheners, to avoid getting pregnant again.

To add to my mother’s misery, my paternal aunt has two sons, both of them settled in Canada. However, while everyone thinks they’re working as civil engineers, I know their secret—the elder one cleans toilets and the younger one is an interstate truck driver. Yes, they’re sort of decently settled, but that’s because they’re in Canada. Neither of these professions would’ve provided them with the comfort of a warm house and some bread and butter on the table had they been pursuing them in India.

As far as my grandmother was concerned, she was living proof of the fact that women have been the flag-bearers of patriarchy for the longest time, and they are their own worst enemies. I wish to be nothing like her.

The more I think about everything, the more my mind gets sucked into the rabbit hole of ugly memories that I cannot erase, and that whole evening comes alive in front of my eyes, scene by painful scene.

‘What the hell is wrong with you, Ma?’ I screamed.

‘See beta, there are only a few ways to leave this country and settle abroad. You’re a girl, and the easiest way out for you is to marry an NRI, just like Harpreet did. Why do you even want to appear for more competitive exams?’ she asked. ‘Besides, your mamaji took care of both your and your sister’s school fees. We couldn’t have afforded a private school otherwise. But we can’t keep begging him for help like this, you know that.’

‘Ma, I really want to become financially independent and take care of myself. If I marry a guy just for the sake of his money, I’ll have to live by his rules and conditions. I’ll be bullied and insulted my entire life. Just like you’ve been bullied and insulted all through your married life. Dad has beaten you up and cheated on you for years. I don’t want a life like yours!’ I yelled at the top of my voice.

Even now, I have no idea what had come over me at that moment. Throughout my childhood, I had witnessed all the ugly fights between my parents and taught myself to stay quiet. Even after I learnt the truth about their marriage, I had never dared to voice my feelings. But that day, when I heard that they wanted to just marry me off, something had come undone inside me. And that something was very unsettling. It was as if a strange ghost had risen up inside me, with even stranger powers that conjured up words that had been clearly festering in the deepest corners of my mind.

I couldn’t fathom the anger and resentment that were searing through my mind and body. I was so angry that I was shaking. My mother, however, had gone entirely silent. She never said a single word about whatever had happened, and like every other time in the past, I knew that no matter how bad the situation was, she would act as if everything was perfect the next day. But I’ve wanted to have a conversation with her since the time I started understanding the stuff that went on in our family.

We both retreated to opposite sides of the room after my outburst. Soon after, my mother began sobbing helplessly. She sobbed and sobbed till she had no more tears left in her. It was only when the clock was about to strike one that my mother realized my father would be back for lunch at any moment—he owned a small imitation jewellery store, just two lanes away from where we lived in Chandni Chowk. She got up, washed her face and resumed her domestic routine like nothing had happened. And this summed up our entire lives, really. We never talked about the issues that troubled our family, or about what we wanted for ourselves. We were only allowed to follow the paths that my father wanted for us.

That afternoon, as we sat around our small, rickety dining table, my father said, ‘Kiranjeet, it’s time you got married like Harpreet. We’ve sent your biodata to many matrimonial groups. Start learning how to do household chores from your mother. The better you get at that, the better you can please your husband.’

My mother and I didn’t utter a word. When we continued to eat in silence, my dad threw his spoon on the floor and screamed at the top of his voice, ‘Are you both deaf?’

He looked like a wounded rabid dog in that moment, so angry was he at our lack of response. My mother started to placate him, sounding like a stuck cassette that suddenly starts playing on its own, ‘Bhai called today. He’s offered to pay for her tuition if she can find a college in Amreeka.’

‘I don’t need any favours from your stupid brother. He earns in dollars but never extends any support in times of crisis. My little shop is almost about to shut down, all thanks to these online shopping companies. Our sales are at an all-time low. Forget about Amreeka. Let’s sell your jewellery and marry this one off.’

‘Papa, my friend Suhana’s elder sister is a marketing expert. She can help us build our own website. That way, we can also find new customers. I can take a long-distance course in marketing and help you with the business,’ I said with a lot of hesitation in my voice.

‘You’re a girl. No need to think about running our family business. You’ll eventually get married and leave. How I wish Wahe Guru had blessed me with a son instead of giving me these two liabilities! Must be some bad karma from my past … I’ve already succeeded in getting your sister married, now all I want is to get you married as soon as possible.’

Not a single word was exchanged after that. While my dad chewed his food loudly and hurried to finish the meal, my mother and I could hardly swallow a bite. I had grown up with so much hatred around me that I knew the only way to prove why God had sent me to earth was by becoming financially independent, and for that, I would have to rebel against everything and leave. Once I left, I would never go back.

When I finally landed in the US, it felt like I’d been practically born again. It was the first time in my life that I felt there was no bias against me. I knew that if I worked hard and secured a job for myself, most of my life’s problems would end. So, I gave it my all. While my classmates in university went partying in the city on the weekends, I did all kinds of odd jobs to repay Uncle Joe, and although I did pay all the money back eventually, God knows that I can never truly repay Uncle Joe and Aunt Mannie for everything they have done for me. They mean more to me than my own parents do. They literally gave me another life, and I owe everything I have today to them.

That happy thought startles me out of my reverie and reminds me that I’m getting late for the airport. I glance at my watch and then check Google Maps—Newark Airport is almost an hour and a half from here; it’s the only place I could secure a direct flight from. Where am I headed now? I’m headed to the only other place on the planet that, apart from Josie’s, I can call home .

I quickly gulp down the rest of my coffee and book an Uber. Two minutes later, I’m out of the Plaza and in my cab.

The driver greets me enthusiastically, ‘Hello, madam!’

I’d noted his name on the app, so I reply, ‘Hey Antonio! You can call me Kiana.’

‘Alrighty. Where are we headed?’ he asks as he starts the ride and peers into his phone, waiting for the ride destination to pop up on the app.

‘Newark.’

‘Newark’s a good choice, Kiana. JFK gets packed during the holidays.’

‘I would’ve preferred JFK, frankly. But there was no direct flight available from JFK.’

‘Ah, okay. There’s a snowstorm warning that’s been issued and many flights have been impacted. Did you check if yours is still on time?’ he asks.

‘What? Let me check.’ I take out my phone and open my email inbox, only to realize that there was an email from United Airlines about my flight being delayed. Clearly, I had missed reading it.

‘You’re right, Antonio. My flight’s delayed,’ I tell him. ‘Can’t be helped now. Anyway, aren’t you going home for Christmas?’

‘I’m headed to Europe next week with my girlfriend, Camilla. It’s going to be a merry, merry Christmas!’ he nearly sings. The excitement is very evident in his voice.

‘That sounds fun!’ I laugh.

‘Are you Indian? A student here?’

‘I’m Indian, yes, but I’m not a student now. I’m older. I work here.’

‘That’s amazing. When I saw you exiting the Plaza, right at that moment I knew you’ve got all the dollar bills to have fun tonight! You need no cheap thrills!’ Antonio sings out yet again.

‘If I were a student, I wouldn’t have been able to book such an expensive place for myself!’

‘I’ve met some crazy rich Asian kids splurging in the city, and I’ve either picked them up from the Plaza or dropped them there,’ he informs me.

‘Unfortunately, Antonio, my family back in India is crazy as shit and rich as a shithole.’ I let out a sarcastic laugh.

‘My family in Mexico is a huge mess as well. Sounds just like your Indian family,’ he confides.

That’s the thing about America, you meet people and you talk to them without worrying about any judgements being passed, because they’re simply not concerned. It’s the best place on the entire planet to have endless meaningless conversations.

The rest of the ride to the airport is filled with easy banter. ‘Enjoy Europe!’ I say as I step out of the cab at the airport, and Antonio drives off with a quick wave.

Once inside the airport, I drop off my bags at the baggage counter and make my way towards the security check-in line. As I walk past the big, burly sheriffs deployed near the screening point, one of them calls me, ‘Hey! Can I check your passport?’

‘Of course,’ I reply. I show him my Indian passport with the American visa stamp, which allows me to live and work in the country.

‘You may go!’ he says, handing the passport back to me.

It’s not like I’m living here illegally, yet every time someone calls my name at an airport, I’m scared that I’ll be humiliated. There were many white people both ahead of me and behind me in the line, but no one was stopped. My visa ensures that I pay considerable taxes to the country. Yet, the government calls me a ‘Resident Alien’ on paper. And there are constant reminders of this fact everywhere, like that billboard that I had spotted outside the airport earlier. ‘Stop making excuses, VOTE!’ it had said, but I can never vote in this country. So, the truth is that when you leave the country you were born in, with your life packed up in a suitcase, and decide to live in a strange land, you’re in a state of perpetual identity crisis. And it’s not an easy state of mind to be in.

As I walk towards the boarding gates, looking around for directions to Gate 12, I hear a feeble, trembling voice calling out from somewhere behind me, ‘Beta, are you Indian?’

‘Yes!’ I say as I turn back.

An old woman in her late seventies, a little stooped, dressed in a yellow phulkari cotton salwar kameez, is standing in front of me. Her face looks dry, as if she hasn’t applied any moisturizer in ages, and her salwar kameez has even more wrinkles than her face does. I can see that she’s very disturbed about something.

‘How can I help you?’ I ask her with genuine concern.

‘My flight to San Francisco is delayed, and I have a connecting flight to India from there. But I have a feeling that I will miss my connecting flight. I’ve been trying to explain this to the airline people, but I don’t know English that well.’

Hearing her talk in Hindi makes my heart flutter with joy, because I haven’t heard the sound of it in ages. And sometimes, my tongue aches for real when I have to speak in accented American English for an entire day. It just doesn’t come naturally to me.

‘Are you travelling alone?’ I ask the woman, forcing myself to focus on her.

‘Yes.’

I check her ticket and see that she’s indeed travelling alone, and on the same flight as me. Our flight’s been delayed by three hours, so she was correct in her assumption—she would surely miss her connecting flight to India.

I ask her to calm down, then I take her tickets and walk up to the airline’s customer service desk to seek help on her behalf. A middle-aged black woman, with a face like a robot, is the only person at the counter.

‘Can you please put this passenger on the next flight to New Delhi from New York?’ I politely ask her.

‘What?’ The woman looks up at me with surprise. She had been fiddling with her phone. It annoys me to see her poker face, and her magenta nail extensions make a noise that grates on my nerves.

‘There’s no way she can catch this connecting flight,’ I tell her, pushing the woman’s tickets across the counter.

‘The airline will change her connecting flight once she reaches SFO. She can stay the night at the airport lounge and take the new flight forward,’ she replies, unruffled.

‘She needs to go back home comfortably. She’s an elderly passenger and she’s unaccompanied. Just put her on a direct flight from here. I know you have the power to do this,’ I try to negotiate.

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Then let me just post this on Twitter, tagging your official handle, and let the world know how poorly you guys treated an elderly tourist from India because she’s brown!’ I threaten her. Sometimes, us immigrants, we’re forced to use our immigrant status and our skin colour to our advantage! Sad, but true.

In this case, I have the pleasure of seeing her eyes all but roll back. She drums her nails on the counter and then replies, ‘I’ll put her on the next flight from Newark.’

I nod in response and wait until I see her start the process on her computer screen.

For all the progress it’s made, the customer service in America, be it at a hotel or an airport, sucks. People have been trained to work on processes and machines and not really care about human interaction. But they’re also so scared of being sued by a customer that sometimes, all it takes is voicing your resentment, and they act appropriately. I learned this only after quite a few years of living here.

I walk back to the old woman and hand her the direct ticket to the place I once called home , her home—India.

‘God bless you, beta! May you go places in life,’ she blesses me as she wipes her tears, overjoyed at finally being able to return home.

‘Take care, Aunty.’ I almost touch her feet.

And that’s the thing about my country: you can take a person out of India, but you can rarely, if ever, take India out of a person.

Afterwards, I head to the retail outlets in the waiting area and buy presents for Uncle Joe, Aunt Mannie and my cousins Ryan and Ella. Eventually, after three excruciating hours of delay, I hear the announcement that the airline is finally about to start boarding for my flight. Delays and long-haul flights are common here. Travelling across the US is as demanding as travelling across different nations since there are three time zones within the country itself. But everything aside, I can breathe easy now, for I would be home in eight-odd hours.

And right at that moment, my phone vibrates. I’ve been anticipating an approval mail from my boss, but I see that it’s an email from ULIC. Maybe the results are out. I probably haven’t been selected and the email would just confirm this.

With no hopes and with limited interest, I open the mail.

Shock hits me the very next instant, because the email says, ‘You’ve been selected.’ There are detailed instructions on how I am to create my profile by downloading the app using the link that’s been provided at the end of the email. Reading the words sends a shiver down my spine. My feelings oscillate between complete disbelief and pure ecstasy, much like a huge pendulum.

Why me? I’ve never been chosen for anything. Could life be playing a trick on me? I look around at my fellow passengers and realize that I am, quite possibly, the only happy passenger on this delayed flight, all thanks to the email!

I quickly download the app, set up my profile and find that I already have a message waiting for me from someone called Neer.

Neer: Hi Kiana! You seem like someone I’d love to get to know.

Me: Hi Neer! Same here. I wasn’t expecting to be selected honestly!

Clearly, Neer is online at the same time, because I receive a reply the very next moment.

Neer: Haha! Me too!

Me: A happy coincidence then! Tell me about yourself, Neer. What do you enjoy doing in your free time?

Neer: Well, I’m into hiking and cooking, and I love watching stuff on Netflix. How about you?

Me: Nice! I love hiking too. As far as cooking is concerned, I’m a foodie, but I hardly cook.

Neer: Ah, I’ve been into cooking for a while now.

Me: Have you tried any new recipes recently?

Neer: Homemade pasta!

Me: Fancy!

Neer: Yeah, I’ve been experimenting with pasta. It’s been fun so far, but I still need to perfect my technique, of course. There’s something very satisfying about the whole process of making pasta at home.

Me: Sounds lovely! I’m a sucker for good parathas though. Anyway, tell me, do you have any favourite hiking spots?

Neer: I travel to the Himalayas pretty often. Once every six months, in fact.

Me: Oh! You’re based in India, then?

Neer: Yes. How about you?

Me: I’m based in Chicago. I’m Indian though. I moved here some nine years back for college. Mountains are my favourite too! There’s something so serene about being surrounded by nature. Do you have any upcoming hikes planned?

Neer: Not yet, but I’m always on the lookout for new trails. Maybe we could plan one together sometime?

Me: I’d love that! It would be great to explore a new trail with someone who shares my love for nature. Have you ever travelled to the States?

Neer: I keep frequenting the US, once a quarter at least, for work. But I mostly travel to the West Coast. You’re on the East Coast, right?

Me: True, but guess what? I’m at the airport right now, heading to SFO for the holidays. My uncle lives there, so I keep visiting the West Coast too.

Neer: Oh! That’s amazing. Perhaps we can meet there someday, if things work out …

Me: Yes, why not! Anyway, listen Neer, I’m about to take off. I’ll text you back later. Have a great evening ahead! Bye!

Neer: Bye! Have a safe flight!

I join the boarding queue and, once inside the plane, walk to my seat and settle down. As I fasten my seatbelt, I realize that I have this weird smile plastered on my face that refuses to go away. I’m reminded of the old Yahoo Messenger days when we would enter random chat rooms and speak to random strangers. Oh, the number of stupid conversations I had as a stranger, with other strangers! Life is weird—sometimes you travel the world only to end up back at square one.

What was the point of travelling after all?

Just as I begin to think that I have everything under control, my body reminds me about who’s actually in charge—I can feel my periods making a grand entrance, as they always do on important days and ruin things. They’re like that surprise guest gatecrashing a meticulously planned party, uninvited and unwelcome, and catching you off guard once again. It’s frustrating, it’s inconvenient and it’s downright annoying. But then, amidst all the inconvenience, it’s a reminder that they are a part of my existence, a reminder that life doesn’t always go according to plan. So, as the aircraft taxies down the runway to take off, I take a deep breath, cross my legs to temporarily control the flow, and sit tight, knowing that this too shall pass, like it always does. I’ll wait for the seatbelt sign to go off and then use the restroom to take care of this new mess.

Life is a mess, and you’ve got to appreciate the mess that is life.