The airline captain continued with his announcement, “….. We have started our descent into Toronto Pearson airport….Please have your Customs and Immigration papers ready along with your passports….”

An Indian flight attendant, who knew by now which passengers didn’t understand English, walked over to Nehal and his wife Geeta, and translated the announcement.
He had already checked their passports – and rest of their possessions – many times during the flight. It was his habit – to worry, to double check everything and check again.
“Look outside Geet”, he nudged his wife, probably 10th time in last 6 hours and repeated the same observation, “We are flaying over the clouds.”
Half scared and half asleep, she ignored him.
“I always knew our son will do great”, he said, trying to start a conversation, his voice filled with pride,
“What is great about dividing up the family across the oceans? We get together only when someone is getting married or when someone dies” she quipped
“Raj is probably waiting for us at the airport already,” he continued, ignoring her response.

A middle class farmer, Nehal had spent better part of his married life raising his only son. He always wanted him to be ‘something big’, something that he couldn’t be – may be a doctor, or an engineer, or a captain…he could never make up his mind. His favorite time-pass was day dreaming, day dreaming about his son being a ‘big shot’.

“I hope he is in good health, he used to get so sick when he was little” Geeta said.
“He was always in good health; you just ran to the doctors even if he would cough a little.” He said with a smirk.
“A mother’s heart…” her unfinished sentence was so complete; he knew what she meant, and how much they adored Raj as a little kid.

To this day, both of them remember all the doctors’ visits they made for Raj, some in the middle of the nights. She used to pray all the time while waiting on the doctor; and he used to watch the doctor, imagining a grown-up version of his own little kid. Most of the time he did not understand what the doctors or nurses said to each other; it was half English mixed with half Hindi. The diagnosis in the end always used to be little things – a common cold, a simple rash, or mosquito bites…
“Thank God, for listening to my prayers”, she would always say after a doctor’s visit – speaking to God directly.
“One day my son will speak English like that doctor, may be better” used to be typical response from Nehal…. Read the rest of this entry »

Tags: Culture, Desi, father's pride, India, india abroad, Living Abroad, Non-Resident Indian, NRI, overseas, Short Story, story