We all grew silent, just as the music and dancing grew louder. I could only think of the house in Kabul and Shura Street before the Soviet tanks occupied the city. Would there ever be a place as pleasant and happy and carefree?
The wheels clacked under our feet as we sped along. The raucous beat, the incessant clapping, and the energetic singing in the aisles created a driving impulse inside me to join in, to forget the fear and uncertainty that had been festering for so long. I remembered the shama, and the peaceful spirit I’d found there deep in the cave. And while this experience on the train was different in kind—joyous and raucous—it was of the same nature: people finding happiness in their lives. We had left so much happiness behind in Kabul, and today’s train ride was a portent of gladness to come. I was excited, anticipating what my new life in India would open up to me.
Meanwhile, Padar chewed unconsciously on the stem of his pipe, making a clicking sound that told us all he was deep in thought. He fingered the scrap of paper with the address written on it as he stared out the window.
We pulled into the New Delhi Railway Station very late in the afternoon. We stepped off into a tangle of people calling, shouting, searching the crowd for familiar faces. Others hustled their bags or suitcases and packages, some with bundles under their arms, as they raced to make a connection. Children ran and jumped. I heard laughter and crying, and dogs scooted around, dashing between people’s legs, hunting for food. Humanity jammed every square inch, so Padar held my hand as we wove through the surging crowd, up the stairs, and through long queues of people waiting for tickets, till we made it outdoors.
Cabs of all sorts—vans packed with people and belongings, brightly painted rickshaws of every configuration with bundles tied to roofs—lined the street. Teens with radios on their shoulders strolled by, music blaring. Padar hailed a green motorized rickshaw, and we all piled in. He showed the driver the address, and the little car lurched forward and merged into the dense traffic.
We drove through New Delhi, taking in the sights. The streets were jammed with cars and rickshaws and bicycles and people on the move. Shoppers darted in and out of stores along the street, carrying packages and bags. The sidewalks were full of displays of fruit and vegetables of every color and size, of clothes on racks, of electronics, toys, and so many people selling things from carts and stands. The city streets teemed with traffic—horns honked, cars sped by, and rickshaws weaved around traffic jams. With my head out the small window, it was easy to notice that not only was India a busy and colorful place, but it smelled different than any place we had been before; spicy curry filled the air. And music was everywhere. It seemed a nation possessed with it. A thrill shot through me remembering all the Bollywood movies I used to watch in the kitchen with Noor. The images of those dancers singing and dancing their way through their troubles came readily to mind. I wanted to jump out and grab some of the excitement.
We passed through neighborhoods full of small shops, clogged with pedestrians, and into sections with tall glass buildings and streets filled with expensive cars.
Padar grew pensive as we traveled the entire length of the city. I knew that when he grew quiet and serious, he was turning over something difficult in his mind. His unlit pipe still clacked around in his mouth. He hadn’t seen or talked to Mommy in a few years, just like we hadn’t.
After a long drive we turned into a neighborhood that reminded me of the diplomatic section of Islamabad only nicer. All down the wide, tree-lined street, we passed elaborate homes, two- and three-story, surrounded by fences and gates, with emerald-green lawns and colorful flowers. Many had expensive cars in the driveway.
The rickshaw driver stopped in front of an impressive two-story home that had large windows and was surrounded by a white fence. We piled out onto the sidewalk. After unloading our luggage, the driver took off, leaving us alone in the quiet of the peaceful street.
“Where are we?” Zulaikha asked.
“Greater Kailash,” Padar said. He nodded at the house in front of us. “This is where your mother lives. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
In many ways it was nicer than our home in Kabul. It appeared to have a lot of bedrooms, with so many windows on the second floor. Padar gazed up at it. He had never told us he had any hesitations about finally seeing Mommy, but as he stood there rubbing his chin, taking in the fine home she lived in, there was a look of concern on his face.
While he stared up at the bright windows reflecting the afternoon light, I surveyed the neighborhood. Down a block, several kids were out in the street, kicking a ball and running, shouting at each other with carefree voices. I began to look around for a pear tree.
With a resigned shrug, Padar said, “All right, let’s go.” We followed him to the side of the house, where the driveway led up to a wrought-iron gate. Huddled together, we all peered through the iron bars.
Down the cement drive, along the side of the house, a tall, thin woman in an elegant housedress played with a child. My heart thudded at the sight of her wavy dark hair. It was Mommy. She looked healthy and was dressed so primly, just the way I remembered her from Kabul. With her was a lanky girl with straight black hair that swished around as she leapt to catch a big blue ball that the two bounced back and forth.
“Who is that girl?” I whispered to Padar.
“That’s Vida,” he said, his voice cracking a bit as if he was surprised at how much she had grown. I could hardly believe my eyes. She had been so small the last I had seen her, and now she was a vivacious little girl, so full of life and grown-up.
Just then the girl stopped bouncing the ball and turned toward all of us gathered by the gate as if we were waiting for permission to enter.
“Enjeela?” she cried, and began to run toward us. Mommy turned toward the gate and took us all in, cocking her head as if trying to figure out who this group of disheveled kids was standing at her gate. We had been wearing the same clothes awhile now, and our shoes were caked with dirt. We looked every bit like we’d had many days of hard traveling. She clasped a hand over her mouth, as if to keep herself from crying out.
Vida ran to us, her white dress rippling in the air. “Enjeela.” She reached through the bars of the gate to take my hands. The moment our hands touched, every bit of love for her came tumbling back like we’d never been apart.
“Open the gate,” I said. She unlatched it, and Padar swung it open. As Vida hugged me, Mommy made her way down the driveway, shuffling as fast as she could. Padar had told us of her heart surgeries, and while she looked healthy, she didn’t move very quickly.
“My babies,” she said, reaching out to each of us, touching each of us on the face. “My babies,” she said again and again. “You’re here. I can’t believe you’re here at last. We’ve been waiting for you for so long.” Her voice, the expression on her face of relief, told me she was so happy to see us. I stood frozen at her words, not expecting anything more from her but wondering how much she remembered of me.
She came back to me and touched my cheek, placing her warm palm to my skin. “Enjeela,” she whispered. “You’ve returned to me.” Her touch was warm, comforting, welcoming. I fell into a moment of happiness, like melting inside. I closed my eyes, holding in tears, and held her hand to my cheek. She did remember me.
She brushed my hair down with her other hand, and she and I looked at each other. Her dark eyes glistened as she looked me over. “I’ve prayed for this, Enjeela. You’re finally home.”
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