Portals of Entry: A Short Story

“Why do you have so many stamps for Liaqat?”

The immigration officer looked directly at her bloodshot eyes, his poker face doing a poor job of hiding his suspicion.

“I’ve had a lot of friends get married there recently,” she replied, as rehearsed.

“Hmm.” He flipped through the little blue book, passing many empty pages where he could have easily placed Varsa’s stamp and let her carry on with her day.

Two other passengers had already gone through with the neighbouring officer in the time he was taking to flip forward, flip back. Flip forward, flip back. She could feel the stares of the people behind her regretting their queue choice.

He turned to his computer. Click, clack, click; he tapped into an old keyboard with bureaucratic confidence.

“They’re really smart, you know. One look the wrong way and they’ll take you in for questioning.” Mama had warned.

“Is there a problem, officer?” She tried to maintain the right tone. A little innocence. A little impatience - the kind that would signal importance, not disrespect.

Even from where she stood behind the glass partition, Ziyana could see that officer Sandeep Kumar had a nice round belly under his camel-coloured uniform. A neat side part, oiled down on both sides. At least two small children at home she guessed. He looked only a few years older than her, their lives worlds apart.

The many clocks on the wall behind him showed 5:57 am local time. Probably the end of his shift. He yawned.

Ziyana was born with an American passport - a privilege that gave her the opposite of trouble at most borders - except when it was laden with stamps of the so-called enemy’s country. In this case, the home of her father.

“Postwalla… Hmm.”

“Are you Bohri? Your name looks like you might be.”

“Yes I am.” The truth was more complicated, but immigration was not the place for complicated truths.

“I had a friend once who was also Bohri Muslim.”

“Oh, okay.” She didn’t append ‘that’s nice’ because she didn’t know if he thought it was a good thing.

“Any issues, sir?” She cleared her throat, unable to contain her impatience. She had followed all the rules - checked and double-checked.

“No, nothing.” He opened his mouth to ask another question, but was interrupted by a phone call. It lasted 15 seconds. Ziyana held her breath the entire time.

Until he’d stamped the oval shape into her navy blue book and pressed the button to open that flimsy glass gate, he held her fate.

The phone call ended with officer Kumar looking distracted.

“Have a pleasant stay.” He reached for the ink pad.

Chaaap!

Ziyana grabbed her passport and walked through the now open glass door, casually, then quicker the minute she was out of his line of sight. Walking fast, in case they changed their minds.

“Ma’am you want perfumes or lipsticks?” “Ma’am, chocolate is on sale.” “Ma’am….”

She zoomed through Duty Free, only pausing for a second at the end to scan the giant TV screen that directed traffic in the most inefficient manner. ‘Bags arriving’ - Belt 8.

Ziyana made a beeline for her carousel, thinking about what she was going to have for breakfast. And then later for lunch.

In her own world - slowly, and then all of a sudden - she noticed an ordinary yet unmistakable buzz cut out of the corner of her eye. Standing at belt 6.

No way. There was no possible way.

She froze, then tried to take a few more sneaky glances to be sure. It had been a while. But not so long that she didn’t notice her heart had already started to race.

With clammy palms, she took her phone out and pinged Mirah.

DUDE. Are you there??

You won’t believe what just happened.

She tilted her phone up just a little bit to send a quick ‘view once’ photo.

THIS.

Last online 5 hours ago.

Ugh, Mirah hadn’t woken up yet.

Now what?

All of a sudden her bladder brought her back to earth. Luckily, there was a toilet area closer to the higher belt numbers.

Can you please wake up??? She pinged Mirah again, finally releasing 7 hours’ worth of airplane water.

While washing her hands, she noticed her skin looked grey like a mouse from a children’s book, even though that was literally impossible as a brown person. Her eyeliner was smudged - like a mug shot, not the sultry look one would have preferred in this situation.

She splashed water on her face, using paper towels to dab it dry because fuck the environment when your personal crisis is more important.

On her way back to the baggage area, she decided to fill her water bottle at the questionable refill station. While waiting, she closed her eyes and took three deep breaths. What kind of person do you want to be, Ziyana?

She was rarely avoidant. But what would she even say? How have you been? Do you still live in your Balham rental or have you finally bought your dream home?

“Ziyana?” Buzz cut was suddenly standing right next to her, backpack slung over his shoulder.

Her airport landscape calculation had been completely wrong.

“Oh. Hey!” She wondered if he knew that she had already seen him.

An awkward and not very tight hug ensued.

He smelled the same - faint leftover sweat mixed with something oud-and-sandalwood-y. He was wearing his usual dark green chinos rolled up once, scuffed black Timberland boots. She noticed a tattoo on his right forearm that wasn’t there before. Something in Arabic. Not worth lingering on the irony.

He looked at her for a second too long.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, like a distant relative who wasn’t called on a nine-hour layover in ‘their’ city.

If he noticed her noticing his tattoo, he didn’t make it known.

“It’s my Nani’s 90th birthday - we’re celebrating in Koliwadi. I came a day early to meet a friend here.” Once, he would have already known this.

“What about you?”

“My dad’s not well,” he said, still restrained. She used to know everything about Uncle.

“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear. I’m sure your parents are happy you came.”

“Yeah, it’s been tough.” The slight indentation on his left cheekbone still there. Eyelashes still curled up as if he’d borrowed his sister’s mascara. It would have been easier if time made feelings disappear.

If this was an invitation to ask more, she wasn’t taking the bait.

“Listen, I’m really sorry…” He started to say sheepishly.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to say anything. It’s been a long time.” She once again tried to signal an air of importance, of impatience. Far less successful this time.

“Yeah, but I really wish things didn’t happen the way they did.”

“I know.”

She felt that all too familiar lump in her throat again.

And yet. Unlike the immigration officer, flipping back and forth, back and forth, she couldn’t wait for Kabir’s discretion anymore. Sandeep Kumar had hesitated over her name for a few minutes. Kabir’s family had decided instantly.

A name she hadn’t chosen. A name she would have once happily given up for him.

They stood for a brief second, facing each other, airport chaos and annoying announcements humming in the background.

A sliding doors moment, as Mirah would no doubt call it whenever she woke the fuck up.

“Anyway, I should get going. My Uber’s waiting. Take care; I hope your dad gets better.”

She half-hugged him and walked away in a way she never thought she’d be able to. She grabbed her bag from belt 8 - easy to spot now that the carousel had stopped, with only the few remaining bags of those who had also been held up.

***

In the backseat of the car to Mirah’s, she rolled down her window. Her now-frizzy hair blew into her face as she took in the smells and sounds of this city she almost couldn’t enter.

And then she took out her phone and unblocked him.