I jolted awake to the sound of street dogs howling, screeching, on the gnarled pavement below. The room was dim, with soft moonlight peeping through flimsy blinds. I felt hair glued to my neck by perspiration, and, after a few swipes at my sticky arm, raw bumps where mosquitoes had laid a feast. The fan groaned in apathy above me, throwing hot air about the room.

I was not home, no not my sun-seared city - where the air conditioner hummed like one hundred bees, where non-humans were tucked away in untamed back lawns. My city, where you could spend hours on a smog-ridden sidewalk with thousands of people walking, jolting, jogging everywhere, yet feel like the only person in the world.

My mind flickered – No, I was in India, the land of red, soil-caked earth, mangoes that collapsed in a juicy, jumbled heap, fragrant masalas, gentle cows, herby home remedies. Where beggars’ heart-shaped hands resembled the leaves of a peepal tree, where dust and coconut oil pervaded the heavy air and cotton clothes.

Flicker again – it was December of 2012, and just twenty-four hours before, I had scribbled down the last answer to my math final. Frantically, my mother and I sped home, tossed suitcases into the car trunk, and spun away to a gray airport. Our feet carried us to the airplane (pumped with freeze-dried oxygen), where we tossed in restless anguish for thirteen hours. One more connecting flight (hang in there, don’t tug at the hairs on your pulsing head), and the blankets felt like constraining ropes; the pillows were shriveled marshmallows beat down by a hurricane. But just when your neck is whimpering and sore, what do you hear? The sound of a honey-sugar-sweet voice and she says -

“Welcome to Bengaluru International Airport. The time is…”

Success! You are there, and just a hop, skip, and jump – all right, a claustrophobia- inducing security line – away from that old apartment where you wake up to dogs and moonlight and mosquito bites at 4 AM.