The two-story white walls were grayed with pollution and the passage of time. The windows that had once opened directly to the world were now covered with a mesh screen to keep out insects. Maybe this was the progress my parents had been talking about.
On the left was the garden where I had seen my first peacock. I had been terrified that the large bird was close enough to touch. They ambled to the bungalow each morning, and my nana would toss them grains after his morning prayers, yoga, and meditation. He held my hand while I fed them. It was the only way I felt safe around them. He had passed away seven years ago, and it felt strange knowing that when I walked into the house, he would not be sitting in his favorite chair by the window, drinking his chai and reading the newspaper. Neel and my parents had come back to India for Nana’s funeral, but I’d told them if I took a break from law school, I’d fall behind. In hindsight, a couple extra days dodging the Socratic method probably wouldn’t have affected my professional future, and now I regretted the trade-off.
In the garden was the bench swing where I had once run to show my parents my new champals only to feel a warm, squishy patty of fresh cow dung seeping between my toes, destroying the new sandals. In America, the worst thing I had to worry about was a Westside housewife leaving a dropping from her poodle on the sidewalk and relying on the street cleaners to pick it up by the next morning.
While I saw improvements to the house and garden area, I was relieved that the bench swing itself, the hichko, was untouched. It was the same one I had spent countless hours on and had seen in photos of my mother as a little girl. It held generations of stories hidden among the rusting metal and splintered wood.
The inside of the house was just as I remembered, except for the new upholstery on the living room furniture; it used to be a soft coral but was now a pale green. As I glanced around, every corner of the house harbored memories. The dining table where we’d had countless family dinners was covered with red and gold wedding decorations. The same small, old-fashioned television set with antennae sticking out at odd angles still rested on the wooden table where I had skinned my elbow when Neel and I were fighting over the channel, as we always had. The glass top of the coffee table had a chip from when I had seen a gecko lizard creeping along the wall and dropped a mug of hot rose milk. I thought I hadn’t missed India at all, but the nostalgia of being in this house again washed over me, and for a second, it felt like home again.
On the main floor, the smell of fresh roses, jasmine, and marigolds filled the air. On the couch was a large steel thali holding flowers that Indira Mami was using to thread garlands for her son’s wedding. She beamed when she saw me and then rushed to greet me, nearly knocking over the thali. Virag Mama and she had always made a funny pair because she was as curvy and plump as Virag Mama was narrow and lean.
“Kem cho, Indira Mami,” I said, bending to touch her feet, just as I had done with Virag Mama at the airport. She guided me to the place on the couch where I used to sit as a little girl, the space right across from the window that looked onto the garden swing. She remembered so much about me even though it had been so many years since I had set foot in this house.
After going through the general pleasantries of whether I was hungry or thirsty, we got to the subject of my visit.
“If you are not too tired, you can go to the hospital. Neel and your parents are there,” Virag Mama said.
I seized at hearing I’d have to confront my mother, but no amount of jet lag or apprehension would keep me from going to the hospital and seeing Neel.
“I’m ready now,” I said, heading back toward the door.
“Good. It is best if you go,” Indira Mami said in English. Her accent was strong, but her message was clear. Dipti was not good.
I wanted to ask them for more details but bit my tongue, remembering I wasn’t in America anymore. An elder had given me a suggestion, which in this country was tantamount to an order, and that was not to be questioned.
The ancient fluorescent bulbs cast an eerie yellow light in the hallway, tinting everything with a jaundiced glow. I hated hospitals. I’d never understood how Neel and Dipti could work in them. To me, they reeked of despair and sadness.
Indian hospitals were especially bad. The smell of antiseptic was overwhelming, but it could not mask the lingering stench of stale urine. The uniforms of the nurses and doctors were drab. There was no sign of the pretty pastel scrubs and sterile white walls from the hospitals Neel and Dipti worked in back in Chicago. Neel was probably distraught knowing that these were the best conditions he could give his wife right now.