All the arrangements have been made. The suitcases are stowed in the trunk of the limousine that’s come to whisk me and Daddy away for ten days. I perch on the edge of my seat, my legs pressed neatly together as I mentally scroll through my checklist.
Did you remember to pack the canary yellow outfit for the mehndi, the fuchsia lehenga for the sangeet, the organza red sari for the wedding, the gold Kanjeevaram sari for the reception?
Check.
Did you put in the Tetley tea Daddy now enjoys with his morning breakfast instead of the Lipton chai you get in India?
Check.
Did you remember to put in the pack of bindis that goes with the canary yellow outfit that’s a mandatory color for the mehndi?
Check.
Did you put in the packet of Wrigley’s gum for Pappu, for Chotu, for Munni—the three offspring of Bhopinder Uncle? Since we’re staying at their house, that’s the least you can do.
Ugh. Yes, check.
Why about the No. 5 Chanel perfume that Lovely Aunty, his wife asked for?
Yes, yes, dammit.
Did you call the dog-sitter and instruct her on how to administer the daily exzema medication for Boomer? And, the number of the vet in case of emergencies?
Check.
Did you lock all the doors? Arm the house?
For God’s sake, yes!
I ease out of my jacket and sit back in my seat, tilting it to a reclining position. Daddy is ensconced in the seat next to me, soft snoring sounds whistling from his open mouth. The flight attendant refills my glass with Wente’s Riva Ranch as I’d requested. I close my eyes, letting the chakra healing music that thrums through the headset wash over me.
Sixteen hours later, we land at Indira Gandhi International Airport. It is 6 a.m., India Standard Time. I look out the window. The tentacles of the notorious Delhi fog wrap itself around the plane’s wings.
A cool, blustery morning greets us as we crawl out of the plane, yawning widely. Daddy walks slowly, clutching my elbow as he mutters, “I couldn’t sleep at all.”
“No?” I ask, carefully. “But you were snoring.”
“Nah, not me. I didn’t sleep a wink. The plane was so noisy, the chatter of the passengers, maybe something I ate.” His voice fades in and out as we trudge slowly to the baggage carousel.
Two hours later, I wanna scream as I face officer Prakash Sharma. The badge fastened on his shirt pocket, “Head of Lost Baggage, Air-India,” fills me with dismal foreboding.
“I’m so sorry, Ma’am,” he enunciates, his face a careful mask of attentive concern. “Your luggage didn’t make it. It’s stranded at Charles De Galle airport in France. It’s the airport workers’ strike, Ma’am.” He folds his hands apologetically.
It must be all the caffeine I had with my breakfast meal just before we touched down. Usually, I would have yelled at him or fired off a scathing e-mail to the CEO of Air-India (and copied to the Ministry of Transportation and Aviation) or at least, wagged an admonishing finger in his face as I asked, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “I’m here to attend my niece’s Big Fat Indian wedding, with at least four events accounted for. What do you propose I do now?”
Instead, I let my lips curl into a beatific smile, a Cheshire cat would be proud of. I remember the one long black dress I stashed away in my Samsonite carry-on bag.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say nobly. “We should all be like Jane Fonda at the 2020 Oscars and strive for climate conservation. I’ll make do.” I give him a regal nod, and sweep past him, Daddy following in my wake.
