Hindi

A January morning before six in the corridor of Priya's hospital: the nurse gives Noah the news, Rohan arrives running, and everything has just happened: a daughter is born, she has fallen asleep, Priya has woken up.

Six in the morning, Noah on the phone to the Sharmas' house: the news, the congratulations given and given back, and the blessings everyone says at a birth, may she live long, stay happy, God keep you both happy.

Room twelve, the family round the bed: Dadi ji decides whose nose the baby has, Mummy ji sees Noah's eyes and Rohan's smile, and Noah learns the two words for like and the Hindi for takes after.

The discharge desk three days later: the father signs, the bill has to be paid first, the birth slip has to go to the office within twenty-one days, and the family had to stay one extra night.

Noah walks the Sharmas' lane with a box from the shop: laddoos from our side for Raju bhaiya, two in celebration of the baby, Gupta ji asking the occasion and sending rusks from his side for Priya.

The municipal office in South Delhi: a birth certificate form in the formal Hindi of forms, date of birth, permanent address, applicant's signature, and the clerk's plain words for each of them.

The same window at the municipal office: the child's name in two scripts, Meera with the long ee, Bennett with one t because that's how they say it, Noah letter by letter, and how a thing is written and said.

A photo studio in Lajpat Nagar market: the baby's photos in two sizes, both eyes open, the background made plain white and the file sent to Priya's phone: getting things done by someone, with the causative verbs.

The flat in Greater Kailash the night before the embassy: the folder checked once more before leaving, the certificate in both languages, the phones taken as soon as you arrive, and the morning planned around a feed at six.

The window at the American embassy in Chanakyapuri: the filled form, signed again in front of the clerk, a printed copy, the translation attached behind, the papers kept in the file, and the passport to the written address in three weeks.

Delhi airport, the international terminal: the flight from Amsterdam has landed, they're about to come out, the hour is about to run out, there they are, she's about to cry, Dad's going to hug you, and the granddaughter first.

Chai after lunch at the Sharmas': Noah's mother is Meera's grandmother on the father's side, his father the grandfather, Mummy ji and Papa ji the mother's-side pair, Rohan and Neha the uncle and aunt, Dadi ji the great-grandmother, and the first word will be hers.

The Sharmas' kitchen, Noah's mother with her notebook: write it for your mother, first the clarified butter is to be heated, keep it simple, the gum is to be fried, the almonds and the coconut separately, half an hour stirring all the time, then everything coarsely ground, one spoon a day for forty days.

Lajpat Nagar Central Market with Neha: the baby's things first, a pair of anklets, a set in soft cotton, ten grams the pair, four dozen sweet boxes, two woollen shawls, and one bill for everything.

The flat in Greater Kailash, a pile of printed cards: you are cordially invited with your family, what you say when you hand one over is please do come, please do bring the children, please do come a little early, sixty cards in all, eight from the restaurant, and one for Noah's mother to frame.

Sunday morning at the Sharmas': bring the little one to me, shall we say it together, shall we begin, let's touch a little sweetness to her lips, only touch it, shall we listen to Noah's mother, let's give out the sweets, and let's call her Meeru at home.

The paediatric clinic at Priya's hospital: two hundred grams every week, a feed every two hours, the nights will stretch in a month, three vaccines today and the rest four weeks later, Mumbai by train in two weeks, no problem after the vaccines, and the next appointment in four weeks.

The flat in Greater Kailash, Meera asleep on Noah's shoulder: let me hold her a bit, let her sleep, the restaurant shut for March, let the staff take their leave, let me look in every evening, no deliveries till April, let Priya rest, let me take a photo, and don't wake her with the flash.

The restaurant in Hauz Khas Village, a notice on the door: shut till the first of April, since when, since the start, since this morning for a month, a daughter has been born, six weeks, since then at home, your dal every Friday since the summer, go to Chandni Chowk, and the first plate in April.

The reservation counter at New Delhi station: which train, which date, the Mumbai Rajdhani on the twelfth of March, nine people, second class AC two-tier, three lower berths, three lower, three upper, three side in one coach, the first lower one for Dadi ji, the baby free, four twenty-five from platform one, eighteen thousand in all.

New Delhi station, platform one, the whole family and a pram: the announcement, everyone listen, walk slowly all of you, you two don't run, climb up first, the bags under the berth, sit down all of you, the train is about to move.

The coach of the Mumbai Rajdhani an hour out of Delhi, the conductor at the berths: tickets and ID, nine and a baby, berth thirty-three is an upper one, instead of climbing up let me stay here, take twenty-five in its place, the man from Kota has to agree, sweets in exchange.

The coach after dinner, lights low: she falls asleep as you rock her, rocking her I'll fall asleep myself, talking away we've eaten all the sweets, watching the fields you were somewhere else, I've never seen the sea, by tomorrow evening you'll see it, walking she fell asleep, everyone sleep, keep a hand on her while you sleep.

The taxi rank at Mumbai Central, a black-and-yellow taxi: how long will it take, from here to Colaba forty minutes, how much will it cost, by the meter about three hundred, how far is the sea from the hotel, two minutes on foot, we'll go by Marine Drive.

A small hotel in Colaba, the desk: the Bennett booking, three rooms and a cot, two rooms already ready and the third still not, the cot not yet in the room, the passport copy already here, just the address and a signature, a room still free downstairs for Dadi ji.

The Gateway of India at sunset, Dadi ji seeing the sea for the first time: so this is the sea, how big it is, on the other side is Africa, what a view, for the first time in eighty-two years, how beautiful the light is, could you take a photo of us, come closer and smile, what a day.

A stall near Chowpatty, the man who fries Mumbai's potato fritter in a bun: two vada pav and a pav bhaji, spicy or less, how is the fritter made, first the potato gets boiled, I boil the potato, then it's fried in batter, the bun gets cut, Rohan cuts the bun, garlic and coconut get roasted and ground.

Churchgate station after the morning rush, one ride to Dadar and back: although it's eleven look at the crowd, even so we'll try, the ladies' coach, in spite of the crowd you get a seat, I've never seen a train like this, even so people are kind, the doors open while the train moves, in spite of everything it runs on time, holding on with both hands.

Juhu beach early in the morning, Dadi ji at the water's edge: I had never put my feet in the sea, give me your hand and don't be afraid, I've never been afraid of water, Meera's feet too just once, some day you'll swim in it, some day she'll come with her own children, sometimes I can't believe it, have you ever been to Mumbai, some day the sea in Portland, never, this is my sea.

The departures hall of Mumbai airport, the grandparents flying home: when Meera walks come again, promise, when the shop turns a hundred Dad will come, when she comes I'll make the sweet myself, when she gets home she'll send a photo, when Meera says her first word a video call, take Dadi ji's sweets to Portland, one last photo, message us when you land, and a radio show has called.