(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
After barely four months of tenth class, after an early supper of rice and boiled potatoes and eggs that his mother insisted they ate even though they would be served another supper on the plane, he was off, geometry and U.S. history books packed into his suitcase, which was locked, along with the others, with padlocks and bound with ropes, labeled with address slips of his father's house in Alipore. Gogol always found labels unsettling, the sight of them making him feel that his family didn't live in Pemberton Road. They departed Christmas Day, driving with their massive collection of luggage to Logan when they should be home opening gifts. Sonia was morose, running a slight fever from her typhoid shot, still expecting, when she entered the living room in the morning, to see a tree trimmed with lights. But the only thing in the living room was debris : the price tags of all the gifts that they had packed for their relatives, plastic hangers, cardboard from shirts. They shivered as they left home, without coats or gloves, they wouldn't need them where they were going, and it would be August by the time they return. The house had been rented to some American students his father had found through the university, an unmarried couple named Barbara and Steve. In the airport Gogol stood in the check-in line with his father. "Four in the family," his father said when it was their turn, producing two U.S. passports and two Indian ones. "Two Hindu meals please."
On the plane Gogol was seated several rows behind his parents and Sonia, in another section altogether. His parents were distressed by this, but Gogol was secretly pleased to be on his own. When the stewardess approached with her cart of beverages he tried his luck and asked for a Bloody Mary, tasting the metallic bite of alcohol for the first time in his life. They flew first to London, and then to Calcutta via Dubai. When they flew over the Alps, his father got out of seat to take pictures of the snow-capped peaks through the window. On past trips, it used to thrill Gogol that they were flying over so many countries ; again and again he would trace their itinerary on the map in the seat pocket below his tray and felt adventurous. But this time it frustrated him that it was to Calcutta that they always went. Apart from visiting his relatives there was nothing to do in Calcutta. He'd already been to the planetarium and the Zoo Gardens and the Victoria Memorial a dozen times. They had never been Disneyland or the Grand Canyon. Only once, when their connecting flight in London was delayed, did they leave the Heathrow and took a double-decker bus tour of the city.
On the final leg of the trip there were only a few non-Indians left on the plane. Bengali conversations filled the cabin, his mother had already exchanged addresses with the family across the aisle. Before landing she slipped into the bathroom and changed, miraculously in that minuscule space, into a fresh sari. A final meal was served, an herbed omelette topped with a slice of grilled tomato. Gogol savored each mouthful, aware that for the next eight moths nothing would taste quite the same. The wheels touched the ground, the aircraft was sprayed with disinfectant, and they descended onto the tarmac of Dum Dum Airport, breathing in the sour, stomach-turning, early morning air. They stopped to wave back at the row of relatives waving madly from the observation deck, little cousins propped up on the uncles' shoulders. As usual the Gangulis were relieved to learn that all their luggage had arrived, together and unmolested, and relieved further still when the customs didn't make a fuss. Once they were officially there, no longer in transit, swallowed by hugs and kisses and pinched cheeks and smiles. There were endless names Gogol and Sonia must remember to say, not aunt this and uncle that but terms far more specific : mashi and pishi, mama and maima, kaku and jethu, to signify whether they were related to their mother's or their father's side, by marriage or by blood. Ashima, now Monu, wept with relief, and Ashoke, now Mithu, kissed his brothers on both cheeks, held their heads in his hands. Gogol and Sonia knew these people, but they didn't feel close to them as their parents did. Within minutes, before their eyes Ashoke and Ashima slipped into bolder, less complicated versions of themselves, their voices louder, their smiles wider revealing a confidence Gogol and Sonia never saw on Pemberton Road. "I'm scared, Goggles," Sonia whispered to her brother in English, seeking his hand and refusing to let go.
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