Dear Wigleaf,

There are two words imprinted at the top of this postcard: par avion—by air. Despite that declaration, my note will take about ten days to reach you, touched by many hands across cities, countries and oceans.

You wanted to know how things are at home. In a way, everything's the same.

India bustles. Sounds from the outside are magnified. My ears identify the scampering feet of the boy who delivers milk in the morning, the rustle of newspapers landing at front doors, the vegetable vendor advertising his wares on the street and the squeals of children playing cricket.

Inside, it is quiet. The disinterested maid comes to clean just as she has for the past three decades. She slaps the mop on the floor, then swishes arcs of water back and forth, back and forth.

Mother used to complain, a lot.

I'm battling jetlag. Despite cup after cup of chai, I fight to stay awake in the daytime, remain wide awake at night. It's hard training myself to adjust.

I expect my dad to walk out of the bedroom each morning, ready for his morning tea and newspaper.

He never will.

In a way, nothing can ever be the same.

Apologies for the smudge on the magnificent picture of Golconda Fort, Hyderabad's pride, on the reverse; think of it as a bit of me coming to you, par avion.

Sending affection,
Sudha




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