The visa said it clearly: “Nationality: XXX.”
Determined to remain positive about my homecoming experience, I thought, "At least it's a window seat, and at least the seat next to it is empty. I'll stretch out and sleep."
Fear is a cancer that wears us out only from within.
At seven, she was taken “home” to the country she had never seen, to that dreary school high on the Yorkshire moors. Her parents returned to India without her.
My brother, who had just visited her, had told me she might not last another month. “Go now,” he advised.
A glance at any collection of postcards practically anywhere in the country offers at least a handful of different images of women stacked alongside photos of camels, archways in old medinas, and piles of spices.