Free Ticket to India by N. H. Senzai

in.”
    â€œI see,” said Naniamma , placing everything back in the bag.
    â€œYou must stay for dinner and meet my wife,” said Tariq Sahib .
    â€œThank you so much for the invitation,” said ­ Naniamma gently, “but we need to prepare for our trip to Aminpur. Perhaps on our return we can stop by for tea.”
    â€œAs you wish,” said Tariq Sahib , taking a slim volume from a shelf. “Sadly, this India is not the one you left, but best of luck on your journey. Please accept this as a token of my respect and admiration.”
    â€œThank you,” said Naniamma , taking the book. On its cover was a bearded man.
    â€œThat is Mirza Ghalib, the court poet to Bahadur Shah, the last Mughal emperor,” said Tariq Sahib . “My favorite poem is ‘Temple Lamps.’ Be sure to read it.”
    With that they parted, but Tariq Sahib ’s words echoed in Maya’s mind: Old Delhi is gone. . . . It’s all gone, and those who were left behind are in misery, and those who were uprooted are in misery. As they exited, she felt a rumble in her belly.
    â€œHow about we eat something before heading back to the hotel?” suggested Naniamma .
    â€œGreat idea,” said Zara. “Where should we go?”
    â€œCheck the book,” said Naniamma , glancing at Maya. “It’s led us in the right direction so far.”
    Maya located a place nearby, Karim’s: a restaurant “fit for kings—literally,” said the guidebook, as it was owned by the descendants of royal Mughal cooks. They walked past the bustling open-air kitchen, where men danced in an age-old ballet, some stirring huge stainless steel pots while others grilled meat on flames and flattened disks of dough to be placed inside blistering clay ovens. The waiter seated them at a table and handed them menus.
    â€œIt’s like Bundoo Khan,” muttered Maya, remembering the restaurant in Karachi. She’d been ­hoping to find something she was familiar with. But it was all familiar. There were kebabs—chicken, lamb, and fish. Parathas —plain or stuffed with potatoes or minced meat. A dozen biryanis, royal rice dishes, and vegetable dishes—creamed spinach, peas, cauliflower, and lentils. It was like she was staring down at a menu in Pakistan.
    â€œEven though they are now two countries, the recipes were formulated in the same kitchens before1947,” said Naniamma . “Bundoo Khan brought his recipes to Karachi from his hometown in India. Of course, there are regional differences,” she added as the waiter placed a sizzling plate of kebabs in front of them. “The food in the South has its own unique flavors and ingredients.”
    As Maya took a paratha and added a piece of juicy boneless lamb kebab to her plate, Naniamma added absentmindedly, “And India has many vegetarians, since many Hindus, Jains, and Buddhists don’t eat meat.”
    After the waiter left, Naniamma quieted, lost in her own thoughts. Maya noticed that her grandmother’s hand shook as she reached to take a piece of flaky paratha , and she worried that the day had taken a toll on her. A long journey lay ahead of them. She needed to get back to the hotel and get some rest.
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    A deep, sweet weariness in her bones, Maya grabbed her journal and settled into the bed to log the day’s events while Naniamma and Zara bustled about, preparing for their trip the next day. She pulled out her colored pencils and drew a map of Old Delhi marked with the locations they’d traveled to that day.
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    Saturday, September 17, continued.
    New Delhi, India
    India is not how I imagined it would be. I was expecting it to feel unfamiliar, but everything we saw reminded me of Pakistan: the people, the eggplant and okra in the market, the beggars on the street, the monsoon rains, rickshaws, sticky, sweet jalebis , and the