Ever since my brother was a young boy, he had the ability to convince my parents to get him whatever he wanted. On the other hand, if I wanted something, it didn’t matter how small or large, there was always a big discussion about the matter, and then my brother must also give the okay. It took almost two years to convince my father to buy me a bicycle. I started asking for it in the beginning of ninth grade, and finally, my father purchased it right before I finished tenth grade.
It seemed my brother would get his way once again. Even my mother pleaded, saying, “Krishan, do bring the revolver for your brother.”
I could not say no to my mother.
That night, I talked to Bob about buying a revolver. He knew all about guns, and he couldn’t wait to help me pick one out. In the end, we chose a .32 caliber Smith and Wesson snub nose with a wooden handle for $90, as well as a cartridge box for $8.50.
Shortly before my departure date, I bought and shipped a refrigerator and air conditioner to my parents. Although $650 was the most I had ever spent on any purchase at one time, I told myself that these items would be long lasting and would give my parents comfort during the sweltering hot summer months. In addition to purchasing items for my family, I purchased most of the items that my parents requested on behalf of family members. However, with all the demands I received, my mother did not ask for anything. Her message was simple: “Krishan, just come home. You have been away from me for nine years. I just want to see you, hold you close to me, and hug you for a long time.”
My flight arrived in New Delhi on September 28, a day later than expected. My family members, who had been waiting for me so eagerly, finally returned home thinking something terrible must have happened to me. I called them from a payphone as soon as I got off the plane, and my parents and two uncles rushed to meet me. My parents paid the excise duty of sixteen hundred rupees for the gift items I brought, but unfortunately, customs confiscated my brother’s revolver because I did not have an Indian Arms License.
The moment I passed through customs, I bent to touch the feet of my parents and uncles. They all stopped me right before I reached their feet and said, “No Krishan, it is okay.” My mother and father placed garlands of marigold flowers around my neck and hugged me, joyful tears etching their faces. Before we got into the taxi, my mother attached garlands to the front and back of the car so everyone in India would know we were celebrating. Then, she hugged me tightly once more for a long time.
That night, we stayed in New Delhi with my cousin Ved, and the next morning, our taxi bumped along the road toward Malaudh. I sat squished between my mother and uncle. My mother held my arm tightly, her head resting on my shoulder, and every few minutes she would look up at my face as though she couldn’t believe I was really there.
As we approached the outskirts of Malaudh, I could see the area had been expanded with more shops, and the dirt road had been paved. It just so happened there was a wedding celebration in Malaudh that same night. A band stood outside with their instruments, waiting to go in and play for the gathering of people. They saw the taxi coming toward them, and knowing that Mukandi Lal’s son was returning soon, they realized it must be me. The men jubilantly began playing their instruments, walking in front of us while we drove down the street. Hearing the music, the guests came out of the house to see what was going on. There were not many cars in Malaudh, so the people usually became anxious whenever one came to the village. I rolled down my window as people pointed at us, talking in excited voices. Kids ran out into the street to get a closer look, and they followed behind the car.
“Krishan! Krishan!” voices shouted. In the week since I’d notified my parents of my arrival date, the news had spread quickly through the town. The whole village of Malaudh waited in anticipation of my return. Now that I was finally there, the excitement spread like wildfire. A crowd of people lined the streets to watch me. Children continued to follow behind us, yelling excitedly. The taxi driver stopped in front of my father’s shop, and we all clambered out of the car, stiff from hours of sitting. The band continued playing joyful music as more than fifty people surrounded us, clapping and watching me with big smiles on their faces.
Hearing all the noise, my brother rushed out of the shop. The moment he saw me, he ran and gave me a hug. Others drew closer, some to look at me, some to greet me with hugs. My brother placed garlands around my neck, grinning at me and the commotion around us. My chest was bursting with joy. After nine years of hard work, I had returned to Malaudh a successful man with a degree and a respectable, well-paying job.
My parents’ faces beamed with joy and pride. I had never seen my father so happy, and my mother smiled through her tears. My brother brought sweets outside, and we distributed them to the people crowded around me. From all sides people hugged me, shook my hand, or patted me on the back, saying, “Welcome home.”
So much was the same here in Malaudh, and for once it was comforting, even though it felt like a culture shock to be back in my own country after adapting to
