Ticket to India by N. H. Senzai

Chowk. For a long moment they stood in the shadow of the gate, clutching one another’s hands, their senses overpowered by the colorful sights and sounds. A medley of little shops stretched along the road, overflowing with kitchen supplies, stationery, linens, and cell phone accessories.
    A traffic jam played out before them, a cacophony of horns, snarls of scooters, sputtering rickshaws, and sinewy men pulling carts laden with brass pots, electronic parts, and dry goods. Men and women wove between the vehicles, rushing to meetings; housewives carried baskets of vegetables; and street vendors and hawkers sold everything from phone cards to bags of neon-colored cotton candy. Maya inhaled a mixture of car exhaust and the scent of melons from a stall across the street and watched the chaos.
    A tiny figure clad in a light blue sari, Naniamma stood wide-eyed and pale. “It’s changed so much,” she said, her voice a little uncertain. In her hand she clutched the sheet of graph paper—her memory map.
    â€œDoes anything look familiar?” asked Zara.
    Before their grandmother could answer, a young man with a faint mustache stopped in front of them, carrying a tray of plastic combs. “Madame, you want?”
    Naniamma shook her head and said emphatically, “No, thank you.”
    He shrugged and moved on. The vendor was replaced by another one, hawking potato chips. “Where you from?” he said. “You are not from here, no? Where? America? England?”
    Naniamma grabbed the girls’ hands and hurried across the street.
    â€œHow did he know?” Zara asked in surprise, echoing Maya’s thoughts.
    â€œThey can tell from your clothes,” she said distractedly. “They recognize they’re foreign—your shoes, too.”
    Oh, wow, thought Maya, jumping back as a passing cart splashed dirty water in their direction.
    â€œNow, stay close,” warned their grandmother as she stopped beneath the awning of a spice shop. “Ignoreanyone who tries to sell you something or tries to offer you help without you asking for it.”
    Maya nodded as their grandmother stared down at the memory map. “We go up this road until we come to a fountain,” she said.
    â€œWhat kind of fountain?” asked Zara.
    â€œIt’s an old Victorian fountain,” explained Naniamma . “Made of carved marble.”
    â€œLike the ones people have in their garden?” asked Maya softly. “With flowing water?”
    Naniamma paused, doubt flashing in her eyes. “Well, yes, kind of like that. It was just a small fountain. In a park.”
    â€œSo we’re looking for a park, too?” asked Zara.
    â€œYes, with benches and a stretch of grass. I remember having picnics there with my uncles and cousins.”
    Led by their grandmother, they plunged into a stream of bodies jostling up the street. They skirted a barber cutting his customer’s hair on the sidewalk and took a left past a tree that Zara nearly ran into, since she was busy trying to take a picture of a cow sitting in the middle of the road blocking traffic.
    â€œThis was once the grandest bazaar in India,” said Naniamma , eyeing the line of drooping shop fronts. “A pool sat at its center, reflecting the moon—that’swhat ‘Chandni Chowk’ means: ‘moonlight square.’”
    Squinting past the peeling paint, cracked wooden lattices, and broken balustrades, Maya tried to imagine what it must have looked like once. Her eyes widened as she caught hints of beauty: in the curve of wrought-iron balconies, intricately carved columns, and ornate cornices. She realized that this area must once have been quite posh—filled with ornamented palaces, elegant mosques, coffeehouses, and gardens. But now it had been swallowed up and run down. At the next intersection, Naniamma stood at the corner looking from her map up toward a small hotel across the street.
    â€œIt should