Arrivingat Mumbai Airport,
my head splitting from:
hunger.
customs.
baggageclaim.

Of course our bags were the last to arrive.
Jumbling in acrowd, where
voices scream, and yell
in Bengali, Hindi, andMarathi.
Babies cry.
Ceiling fans and brats whine. My mom barks,
"Watch our luggage!"
I wish I could yell back at her,
orstomp away.
Sweat pours off my forehead,
Everyone gives my shorts adirty look.
I glare back at them.
It makes me feel just like I do
whenTexans stare at my sari.
My dry throat wants a Coke.
Even water willdo.
Porters scramble toward us.
I flop down on the luggage and wish I werehome.
But when my mother
pivots,
smiles,
and hugs nanaji andnaniji,
I realize she is home.
Suddenly my headache evaporates.
Nolonger exhausted, I jump up and squeal,
"Hi Grandpa and Grandma!"






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