a fierce electrical noise coming from the transformer that translated between American and Zambian voltage for the stereo. She’d pressed the crusty orange wave of the off/on switch, and the lights on the stereo had faded, but the shrill buzzing had kept on. She’d found it eventually: a cricket, mottled as maize, clutching a power cord, still singing to its machinic mate.
Except, unlike the love signals of bugs, she thought as she tugged her rucksack from under her seat and shuffled into the aisle, the flashing lights at airports don’t forge connections between the planes. They help them avoid each other’s paths. What lonely lives machines lead. You’re one to talk. You touch and touch and remain untouched. Even by Joseph, who loves you. Naila was at the threshold of the plane now, surrounded by the attendants’ chiming goodbyes and democratic smiles. The Cadbury man was already striding ahead in the tunnel, disappearing into the eddying crowd. Onward. She, too, had a mission here. Naila stepped forward, her feet thick with the blood that had sunk there.
* * *
Death had changed the Balaji family, the way the loss of one tooth leads the others to shift, to drift in the thick of the gum. The change was especially stark in Mother. Over the years, as Lovely Luxe Locks Ltd had grown into an empire, Isabella Balaji had cultivated an easy magnanimity in proportion to its success. Mother-the-boss reigned serene. But now she erupted out of this moneyed calm. She bustled about town, collecting payments the second they were past due, scolding negligent clients, firing workers on a whim.
Hidden away in a bedroom, Naila’s sisters recounted all this, concluding with the scandal of the funeral. Mother had insisted on holding the service at the Catholic mission.
‘With psalms!’
‘They splashed holy water and everything.’
‘But that’s insane—’
‘You weren’t even here, Niles. You can’t complain now.’
‘I had finals! And even if I had been here—’
‘Don’t,’ said Lilliana softly. She had been the most wounded by Naila’s absence.
‘Was there a casket?’ Naila asked after a pause.
‘A white one!’
‘And gold!’
‘Gold is fitting at least,’ Naila snarked. The four of them giggled. ‘Was she pleased?’
‘Is Mother ever pleased?’
‘She absolutely lost it when we got home. The workers were doing their thing—’
‘No!’
‘Believe you me! Full-on village-style wailing.’
Naila pictured it: the workers’ howls perfectly calibrated to the measure of respect due to the deceased, to how poor the mourners were, and how needy. None of them would receive any money anyway. The will was vague – that was how Mother had managed to get away with a Catholic service – except for one key instructon.
‘So when do we go?’ Naila asked.
Lilliana closed her mouth. Gabriella stared. Contessa, the youngest, gave Naila the news.
‘Mother wants to keep the ashes here.’
* * *
Naila was the last passenger standing at the baggage claim when the scales of the carousel slid to a stop. Men in overalls pushed trains of luggage carts and giant wooden brooms – brooms as big as Christ’s cross – over the shiny linoleum floor of the Chennai airport. Naila perused the queue of black and blue suitcases that had been pulled off the carousel, then gave up and headed into a small glass office.
There, another stunningly gorgeous Emirates employee told her that her suitcase had not made the connection in Dubai. It was on the next flight, which would arrive in about five hours. It was just past 10 p.m. If Naila waited for her bag, she would have barely enough time to catch her morning train. She felt her eyes sting at the injustice. Was Mother thwarting her, like some grey-eyed Greek goddess swooping in to interfere?
‘It’s not just clothes and shoes in that bag, you know?’ Naila said to the official, pressing her breastbone against the high counter.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the woman said, blinking her long lashes. ‘But there’s nothing we can do.’
Naila parked herself on one of the plastic chairs in the baggage hall, messing about on her Digit-All Bead until the next flight came in. She joined the other passengers around the carousel, feeling like an interloper. Her suitcase was an interloper too, so scuffed it looked mauled. Naila grabbed it, checked the contents in the ladies’ room – thankfully, it hadn’t been disturbed by airport security – transferred the heavy box into her rucksack and ran out of the airport.
* * *
‘How can you betray him like this?’
Mother ignored her. She was sitting at the dining-room table, which was tiled with white receipts. She tapped