Mr. Pappuswamy
Unironed clothes. Unshaven. A wicker basket by my side with a steel carrier – food prepared by her, the last I will get to taste for a very long time. Thick glasses encased in black frames. Eyes that betrayed everything. She stood on the other side. Her yellow cotton saree, crumpled, a red and green check blouse, big round bindi on her forehead, a smile that displayed tooth uncared for, worn-out chappals betraying cracked soles. Sitting there on the floor of that airport, separated from her only by a railing, I sat writing addresses and phone numbers on a million strips of paper. She is illiterate and cannot speak any English. She is all smiles, in her own charming way, but little does she see the worries plaguing my mind. She can say Hustan, I wish it were enough. I insert the strips into every piece of her luggage, hoping they all reach the right place. I hand one to her and ask her to keep. She impishly puts it into the purse tucked into her person. And then comes the dreaded announ...