Ticket to India Read Free

bridal dress, Naniamma had chosen a turquoise gown, setting tongues wagging and adding fuel to the gossip. Nanabba loved talking about the tumultuous events that had led up to the happy occasion; the story of their relationship had caused quite a scandal in the old days, as was usually the case when a young man from a wealthy family married a penniless orphan.
    As Maya stared at the picture, taken nearly half a century before, she heard the door swing open. She shrank into the shadows, spotting a tiny shape float inside the room. It was Naniamma . At first, her grandmother paused; then she hurried over to her husband. Head bowed, she collapsed beside his body and clutched the corner of a sheet. As she cried, Maya averted her gaze, embarrassed to be spying. Although Maya and her grandmother were carbon copies of each other on the outside, sharing the same small frame, thick, wavy hair, and large gray-brown eyes, on the inside it was Naniamma and Zara who were two peas in a pod: outgoing,opinionated, and extremely stubborn when backed into a corner. As Maya huddled beside the bookshelf, she was torn by indecision; should she rush over and hug her or just give her some privacy? Zara would have rushed over. . . .
    It was the clang at the front gate that made the decision for her. Not wanting to bother her grandmother, she slipped out the door and ran upstairs. The chowkidar , or guard, was letting in her aunt, Syeda Khala , who’d arrived from Chicago.
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    â€œHey, Maya!” chorused the twins, Zaki and Ali, as they barreled through the dining room later.
    â€œHey,” said Maya, putting down the butter knife to receive their exuberant hugs.
    The boys had turned four a week before and were full of energy, since they’d slept most of the journey from Chicago.
    Syeda Khala , on the other hand, looked like she hadn’t slept in days. “Maya jaan ,” she said, giving her a kiss on her head. “How are you?”
    â€œI’m fine,” said Maya, watching her pour a cup of steaming tea.
    â€œWhere’s Zara?” asked her aunt.
    â€œSleeping,” replied Maya. “She always has a hardtime with the jet lag. It takes her a day to adjust.”
    â€œSyeda!” cried Maya’s mother, entering the dining room.
    â€œOh, Dalia,” wept Syeda Khala , her eyes spilling over with tears as she clutched her older sister. “I still can’t believe Abbu is really gone .”
    â€œI know,” said Dalia. “It was so unexpected—he was in such good health. It was Ammi I was more worried about, with her high blood pressure.”
    Realizing that her mother and aunt needed some privacy, Maya grabbed a stack of toast along with a jar of jam. “C’mon, guys,” she said to her cousins. “We’ll have a picnic and watch cartoons.”
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    After breakfast, as mourners paraded through the house, Maya’s youngest aunt, Sofia Khala , finally arrived from Little Rock, Arkansas, with her husband, Uncle Jad. Zara and Maya were tasked with keeping the boys busy upstairs in the television lounge while the adults ­huddled over stacks of papers and made phone calls. Zara had finally stumbled downstairs at noon and now sat nursing a cup of milky tea, laboriously taking notes from a thick biology book to keep up with classwork.
    â€œI’m hungry,” complained Ali, looking up from his coloring book.
    â€œMe too,” Zaki chimed in.
    â€œCan you get them something?” mumbled Zara, waving her pen in Maya’s direction.
    Maya’s nose flared at her sister’s bossiness, but she held her tongue. She was kind of thirsty herself. Shutting her journal with a snap, she rose.
    â€œOh, I’ll come down too,” said Zara, taking her cup. “I need more sugar in my tea.”
    As they approached the kitchen door, the echo of strained voices floated toward them. Zara