“It is okay. We know how busy you are being such a high-powered lawyer,” Hari said with admiration in his voice.
I made a mental note to check in with the Warden about the brief I had emailed him earlier.
Pulling my legs onto the bed, I said, “I should go to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
As I rested my head against the dense cloth brick that served as my pillow, I thought about how Hari had called me didi. I barely knew my cousins. Hari had been a toddler when we left, and Bharat hadn’t even been born. I’d spent summers with them when we were kids, but they were so much younger than Neel and me that it was hard to form any lasting relationship with them. I couldn’t help thinking that family was a feeling more than genetics. I would move mountains if something ever happened to Carrie, but would I really change something as important as my wedding date for cousins I hadn’t seen in fifteen years?
Certainly, my relationship with Hari and Bharat was nothing like the one I had with Neel. When Neel had called to tell me about an accident in India, if it had been Laila or Hari or Bharat, I would have felt bad. Of course. But I couldn’t guarantee I would have jumped on a plane. Today I realized that if something had happened to Neel or me in America, our family in India would have raced to be with us, even though we hadn’t spent time together in over a decade. In India, family trumped all else even if there wasn’t an emotional closeness in addition to the bloodline.
I pulled a heavy rajai over my body. The weight and warmth of the blanket were soothing and felt so different from the feather-light, fluffy down comforter I used in America.
Despite being exhausted, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. After what felt like an hour, I picked up my phone, my finger poised over Alex’s number. With one move, it would be calling him. I wanted so desperately to hear his voice again, to update him on what was going on. But he’d made clear I shouldn’t call him again. As difficult as it was, I had to respect that. I tucked the phone into my bag and closed my eyes.
My sleep was restless. Several times during the night, I heard two packs of stray dogs in the vacant lot behind the house barking with all their might, the all-too-familiar sound of a turf war. I covered my ears with my hands but couldn’t drown out the noise. It felt like I had just closed my eyes and fallen asleep when my nose twitched, and I awoke to the aromatic smell of khari biscuits and chai. It was still dark outside. My eyes adjusted to the moonlight. I tiptoed past Hari and Bharat’s open door; they were sound asleep. Years of living in India must have made them immune to the cries of animals. I, on the other hand, was out of practice.
I crept down the cold marble stairs and found my parents, Virag Mama, and Indira Mami sitting at the dining table with steaming mugs in front of them. The white-and-blue Corelle dishware had been a gift that my family had brought to India over twenty years ago. My parents used the same set at home.
“Are you hungry?” Dad asked.
“Starved.” I plopped down into a chair at the table, using jet lag as an excuse to eat in the middle of the night.
Indira Mami shuffled to her feet to pour me a cup of tea. She was wearing a full-length, zippered pink robe, another item I recognized. My mother wore a similar one in white with paisleys on it. Both were from the Sears outlet store. I imagined Indira Mami had mended hers several times over the years, just as I had seen my mother do to hers. My parents believed that their relatives in India should have the same American comforts we had, so whenever they purchased something for themselves, they would purchase a second to bring to India.
“What time is it?” I asked, scanning the room for a clock. “Why is everyone awake?”
“Four fifteen,” Dad said.
“Neel called from the hospital,” Virag Mama said. “We should go there soon.”
I sipped the tea, basking in the warmth as it traveled from my mouth to my stomach. I broke off a piece of a khari biscuit, and the warm, salty, buttery flakes clung to my fingertips until I licked them off. There was something about the texture of khari biscuits in India that had never been replicated back home. It instantly brought me back to my early childhood in this house.
It was eerily quiet when we arrived at the hospital. The dimly lit hallways had only a few nurses shuffling back and forth, checking on patients. Those who passed us nodded, seeming to know that our family had special permission to be in the hospital beyond the standard hours. Virag Mama knew the hospital director, so we could come and go without question.
Neel was angrily gesturing to the doctor outside Dipti’s room. We stood back to give them privacy. After he finished, Neel marched toward us. He combed his fingers through his messy hair. As expected, he hadn’t slept well.