Welcome Home

We returned to Ahmedabad via train and slept peacefully through the eight-hour journey. Alexander gently woke me up at 4am to say we had reached our final destination. Although a swarm of crooked rickshaw drivers nearly assaulted us after we exited the station, we were able to find an honest man who gave us an “Indian price.” “My cousin lives in Arizona,” he said with bright eyes. “I like Americans.”

I could not contain my excitement as I climbed the flight of stairs to our first story flat. My body convulsed with shivers of relief. My heart trembled as our apartment door fell open, welcoming us into a familiar space. …And then it hit me: Ahmedabad felt like home. Regardless of how temporary it may seem, our comfortable little flat has become a true refuge from the outside world.

After our return, I had a renewed sense of energy. Suddenly everything seemed manageable. I woke easily at daybreak and consistently accomplished all the tasks at hand. I hand washed our mounting loads of laundry and scrubbed the apartment. I bought fresh flowers for our beloved landlord who recently survived a heart attack. And I spent hours connecting raw images of turbans in Photoshop. Most importantly of all, however, I convinced Alexander to see a doctor at the best hospital in Ahmedabad and, following the doctor’s orders, he followed it up with a visit to the main clinic in the neighboring city of Ghandinagar. All test results came back negative (including his blood type, which turns out to be O-), but our excellent American-trained physician was able to locate the reason for Alexander’s recurrent health problems and prescribed some pills accordingly.

Meanwhile, Ahmedabad prepared for Diwali, the nationwide festival of lights celebrating the beginning of the Hindu calendar. Street vendors started to sell the small bags of colored rice flour and large stencils used to make impermanent designs on doorsteps. At night our neighbors lit tiny oil lamps and placed them on either side of their front doors- a symbolic act thought to show Rama (the seventh incarnation of Vishnu) the way home from exile. Everyone from local children to our tailor offered us cashew sweets wrapped in thin sheets of real silver.

The less pleasant preparations included the erection of large firework stalls on the side of the road. Boys of all ages lined up to purchase the cheap explosives. It soon became impossible to walk outside without encountering an unexpected blast. I watched in thinly veiled horror as small children lit their crackers with matches and then sprinted away, a shower of sparks erupting behind them. The city was transformed into a veritable war zone, and the air became clouded with choking smoke.