Repressed (Wattys 2014 Winner)

Epilogue

I walked through the crowded Indira Gandhi International Airport as I tried to get as fast as I could to immigration. I had bought a disposable phone and I called the number Ellen had given me as I waited in line for my turn to come.

It was one ring before she picked up, “Milania?” It was Zara.

“I’m here.” I said. Two words, two syllables, these two things bought me close to my two syllable named boyfriend, Alex. I was here, I was finally here! I wanted to do a happy dance but I was pretty sure the Indians would not like that, so I kept my composure. I bit my lips and my cuticles as I waited.

“I’m outside. I’ll meet you there.” Zara said, I replied with a happy, “Alright,” and cut the phone. It took a while as it was still pretty early in the airport and the counters for immigration were understaffed. I looked up and saw huge hands making different poses, “What are they?” I mumbled to myself.

A young Indian girl with black hair, caramel coloured eyes and deep brown skin replied, “Those are the different mudras.” She smiled at me and looked up as my five foot nine height easily overpowered her five foot one height.

“Mudras? What are they?” I asked her, suddenly interested in the bronze hand sculptures on the wall.

“They’re used to convey emotions in one of the dance forms of India.” She replied nonchalantly.

“Forms?!” I exclaimed. She nodded, “We have many. More than twenty and still counting.”

“Wow.”

“Wow is right. Welcome to India, ma’am,” She smiled at me and gestured with her fingers at a smiling Indian man who was calling me to his counter. I thanked the girl for the information and walked towards the counter.

“Name?” He asked.

“Juliet Davidson,” I fluently replied. His brown eyes were cold and calculating, “Why are you here?”

“To visit relatives.” I said, and smiled at him.

He didn’t ask any further questions, he stamped my passport and let me go. I walked past the baggage claim and check and exited. Rows of people stood on either side behind barriers.

“Milania!” I heard someone call out my name and narrowed my eyes, trying to look for the source of the voice. Someone grabbed my forearm, “Milla!” I was turned around and I met Zara’s chocolate coloured gaze, “You’re here…you’re finally here.” She whispered and hugged me as I began to sob and cry heavily in her arms.

“Shush! It’s okay. Would you like to go to my place, change and then go to the hospital, or…” I cut her off, “Now. Please! What’s his status?”

Zara smiled at me, “They say he’ll be out of it in a few hours.”

‘Which hospital is he in?” I tried to ignore the smell of wet bricks and the feeling of humidity. My t-shirt began to stick to my skin and my jeans suddenly felt very constricting. I assessed Zara, she was wearing a loose t-shirt with harem pants and sandals.

Wise choice.

“Only the best. Rockland Hospital, it’s the best private hospital in Delhi.”

“Say no more, let’s go.” I smiled at her as she took my hand and led me to a private car, we entered it and she told the driver in fluent Hindi, “Rockland Hospital jaana hai. Jaldi karo, please.” I gaped at her, “Hello! When were you planning to tell me that you know how to speak Hindi?”

“I don’t know Hindi, this is just really basic stuff. Just directions and all.” She smiled at me and suddenly I felt insecure. I came to a country where diverse languages, cultures and religions existed. I felt like an outsider. I bit my lip as my thoughts wandered to Alex and his condition.