I wanted to go back to my Amma and Appa. My aunt’s viscousness was not something a child could fathom. Global events caused my mother, brother and I to come to India from foreign lands and I was excited - especially since my cousin was promised to be married to a man who didn’t fully have the approval from my aunt.

The idea that I, a twelve-year-old was the enabler between two clandestine lovers gave me an exhilaration that didn’t exist in the world where I came from. “Wait for the phone to ring three times before you pick up,” my cousin would remind me. I waited by the phone with a book. “Hello,” I would say. “Oh, it’s you. Please wait.” I then would casually go to the living room and ask my cousin to help me with various school entrance exams. She would come in and close the door, ‘for us to focus.’ I sat there, watching the conversation to mostly, “Yes, she is here, we cannot talk about it now.” I would grin from ear to ear, thrilled that I had yet again, successfully carried out the meet with my Sherlock Holmes-level stealth skills.

I got placed at a local convent school and all the Indian-ness that I could only experience vicariously through my cousin’s stories would finally be mine.

I could walk to school like those Enid Blyton stories except here, dirty  roads replaced the meadows. The under-ground was a bright blue tiled tunnel that was covered in dirt, grime and graffiti.

The stench that hit my senses when I descended the steps to the tunnel was unlike anything I’ve experienced before. It was a mix of sweat, stale food, and old, old unbathed bodies. It was a far cry from the plush school bus that took me and my brother to our international school back home. Once I adjusted myself to the putridity, I was appalled to see rows of people sitting on small smooth wooden square slabs with wheels.

When my eyes adjusted to the darker tunnel, I saw that they were people with oversized torn shirts that were brown from years of being unwashed. They had lungis tucked under them. They stuck out their hands with no fingers and asked for alms. They then slid towards me on their wooden slabs, maneuvering with wooden pegs pushed against the floor using their hand stubs while using their toothless mouth to say, “Paapa (little child), give us something.” It was then I noticed that they had no legs. Bile rose inside me and I closed my eyes and ran to the other side of the tunnel heedless of who I was hitting in my path. I could hear those people laugh in the distance. I walked the rest of the way to school questioning my decision to stay back in India. I couldn’t possibly deal with this daily.

As the school day was coming to an end, the fear of the tunnel made me dizzy. I stood by the edge of the road, ready to cross the busy highway. I concluded that I would have to brave the tunnel again. This time, I started jogging down the steps, and then bolted through the tunnel and up the steps again, repudiating the cries for alms and didn’t stop running till I reached home.

My Amma took one look at me was alarmed at my expressionless face and frozen stance. When she held me, tears came flooding and I told her that I wanted to travel back home with her. She told me that since I had started school here, I had to complete the academic year. 

"Who are those scary people?" I asked.

"They are uncles who have been healed from leprosy," Amma said.

The next day, I held my Amma’s hand tightly when we entered the tunnel. We stopped by the uncles. My mom asked them how they were and gave them five rupees each. They looked at me and said, “Paapa, don’t be scared. We just asked for some change so we can eat. We won’t hurt you.” I relaxed a little bit.

With the passing days, I got bolder, and would answer, “Good,” to the uncles', “Paapa, how are you?” and “Yes,” to their “Paapa, you had no school, yesterday?” The months went by; my cousin got married, school was over and time with my aunt was nearing its end. “I won’t be coming again anymore,” I told those uncles as I walked past. “Paapa, we will miss you.”

Something about those words made me stop abruptly and look carefully at the uncle who spoke. His face radiated kind affection. The melancholy of that afternoon is one I will never forget. Ever.  “I will miss you, too,” I replied.  “I promise to visit you."