“UGH!” I groan loudly and flop onto my bed.  

My mother looks at me from across the room. She is busy folding clothes and arranging them neatly in a suitcase. I notice her roll her eyes. 

I get up. Several boxes, tape rolls, markers, and sheets of bubblewrap are scattered around my bedroom floor. I carefully dodge them and make my way to a chair near my mom. 

“UUGGGHHH!” I groan louder and collapse on the chair. 

Mom rolls her eyes again. “What’s wrong, Erin?” 

“I seem to be unwell, Mom.” I fake a cough. “Maybe I caught a cold.” I close my eyes for extra effect. 

“Really?” I can almost feel her cock an eyebrow. “You’ve caught a cold, have you?” 

I nod weakly. 

“In summer?” she asks. 

I open my eyes nervously. “Uh, yes. It’s so strange, isn’t it? S-strange enough to cancel our trip and stay at home, right?”  

I feel proud of my quick thinking. But Mom only crosses her arms and says, “I’d say it’s strange enough to take you to the hospital.” 

At the sound of the word “hospital” I shoot up from the chair. No! A doctor would instantly know that I’m perfectly fine.  

I finally stutter, “I’m fine, really. I’m fine, Mom.” 

“You better be. We have a flight to catch in forty-eight hours,” Mom says chirpily.

I don’t understand how she can be so cheerful at a time like this. I feel as though the world is about to collapse. I feel horrible. I feel homeless.  

But of course, my mother would never understand that. I frown at the thought. 

“Why don’t you want to go to India, Erin?” She sounds concerned.  

I bite my lip and remain quiet. It’s not like she can understand. 

She comes closer to me and whispers, “It’ll be wonderful, honey.” She squeezes my hand reassuringly. 

I pull away but instantly regret doing so. In a low voice I say, “Do we really have to go?”  

Somehow, my voice sounds more pained than I expected. My mother is taken aback too. After a year of joblessness, Dad had finally secured a job—but in a small city in India. As if to compensate for the bad offer, the company promised to provide accommodation for me and my mother in India.  

My mother was as calm as ever. She immediately started packing. My father got busy with the paperwork. As for me, I struggled to stay calm and willed myself to believe that it was a dream that would end just as quickly as it started. 

Only it didn’t.  

The gravity of the situation didn’t hit me until my dad showed me the flight tickets this morning. My mind has been panicking ever since. Going to India means leaving London. It means a new house, a new school, and, worst of all, new people. 

My mother puts her work aside and settles down on the floor. She is quiet, as though she’s thinking of what to say. I want to tell her that I know what her answer’s going to be: “Yes, we have to go, Erin.” 

I open my mouth to say something, but she speaks before I do. “I’m sorry, Erin,” she says slowly. She sighs. “I don’t want to go to India any more than you do. I‘ve lived in London all my life. I feel as though I’m leaving behind everything that is familiar.” 

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. My mom—the pillar of the family, the sturdy mast of positivity, the bright ray of sunshine—is upset by this turn of events? I had never seen her complain about anything. I guess this move to India is a big deal. I’m relieved to know I’m not overreacting. 

“I’m also worried about this change, Erin,” she says softly. “But we have to stay strong or it will break your father’s heart. All the arrangements have been made. There’s no turning back. Besides, there’s nothing left here. All we can do is calm down and prepare ourselves.” 

For the first time, I feel sorry for my mother. I openly show my disapproval whenever I want to, but Mom doesn’t get to do that. She has to stay strong so Dad and I have someone to lean on for support.  

I throw my arms around her and hug her tightly. 

I’m amazed at the words that escape my lips. “We’re gonna be fine, Mom.”  

My heart starts pounding. Just moments ago, I was telling myself the opposite. I was dreading the move to India because it means starting a new life. Because of my unnatural shyness and fear of people, it had taken me almost all of my twelve years to make a friend. How much longer would it take to adjust to a new country, a new culture, and turn a stranger into a friend? 

I bury my face in my mother’s shoulder and weep softly.

We enter the Vijayawada airport at eight in the morning. The entire journey lasted a little over 24 hours. We had to switch planes twice. It would be an understatement to say that my legs feel cramped. 

“Dad, is it okay if I walk around a bit?” 

“Sure, honey. Go take a look around. There are a lot of people here, so it’ll be a while before we get to the immigration counter. I’ll give you a call when we’re close.” 

I nod and wander off. But there’s not far to go. The airport is quite small, especially compared to the other airports I’d seen in London, Delhi, and Hyderabad. It’s not impressive in terms of style, but it is charming. It is spotlessly clean. The furniture is simple. There are hand-painted scenes on the walls—scenes of villagers and farmers with their families and houses.  

I can’t help but frown. The walls seem to be glaring at me, reminding me that I’m far away from home. For the first time, I notice the different people. I’ve seen Indians in my school, but I’ve never seen so many in one place—a place where I don’t belong.  

The sun pours in through the glass walls. I know it’s the same sun, but it feels different. The air, the sun, and the plants are all foreign. Can this foreign land ever feel like home? 

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Dad. I take a deep breath and walk back to my family—the only home I still have. 

When we finally walk out with our luggage, we see a man holding a placard with the name “Eric Vainwright.”  

My father whispers, “This is it,” and puts on a smile. He then waves at the man with the placard and approaches him. My mom and I quietly follow. 

We are led to a big car. The man hauls our luggage over the car and secures it with ropes.  

Dad turns to us and says, “His name is Suresh. He was sent by the company to pick us up. He’ll be taking us to our new home.” 

We file into the car after Suresh is done loading our bags. Once he secures his seat belt, he turns back and offers us a big, toothy smile. “Welcome to India!” 

I can feel the excitement in his voice.  

“Thank you,” Mom say. She elbows me.  

I stop staring at his teeth, which are as dark as his skin, and muster a smile. “Thank you, sir.” 

He waves his hands frantically in front of me, “No, no, no, baby.” 

“Baby?” I’m shocked, “Why are you calling me that?” 

“Why? Baby means child, no? You are a child, no?” 

My father giggles. My face flushes red. 

“Oh, it’s habit,” Suresh continues. “Here, we call kids ‘baby’ and kids call adults ‘uncle’ or ‘auntie.’ So don’t call me ‘sir.’ Call me ‘uncle,’ please, baby.” 

“Only if you stop calling me ‘baby’,” I say coldly. 

My father loudly clears his throat, which translates to, “Mind your manners, young lady!” 

Suresh seems hurt, but he tries to maintain his smile. “If I don’t call you ‘baby,’ what I will call you?” 

I bite my lip. I examine Suresh’s graying hair and the many wrinkles that surround his eyes. He must be in his fifties already. He’s just a grandpa who means well. I feel bad for behaving coldly. 

“Just call me Erin,” I mutter. 

“Shall I call you ‘madam’?” he asks brightly. 

“No, no. Call me by my name,” I say. 

“What is your name then, little girl?” 

“Erin.” 

“Eric? But that is your father’s name, no?” He seems confused. 

My father laughs and explains the difference between our names. Suresh laughs, apologizes, and starts the car.  

Suresh keeps talking. It’s as though he does not even pause for breath. Although he talks in English, I feel like I can’t understand anything. My ears reject his excited voice. I tune it out.  

My head is filled with thoughts of London. I always sat beside my dad when he drove. When we had free time, we would all sit in the car and I’d tell my dad where to go. I knew all the best places in the city. Car trips were the best. 

I look out the window. I’m robbed of the one thing that gave me the most joy. The car trips required that I knew where I was going. But now I feel lost. I know nothing about this place.