FAR AWAY IN THE SKY, above clouds and birds, the plane flew out of Ramya’s reach. Whenever Kartik and Sharanya shouted her name while rapping their rickety wooden window from the outside, Ramya knew they either had to fill pails from the well and milk the cows, or someone had seen them stealing coconuts from the neighbour’s yard, or something exciting was happening; and the only exciting spectacle they could be guaranteed on a daily basis in their tiny remote village near the south coast of India was watching a plane fly by.

In their small mud house, with its leaky thatched roof and rough-walled partition demarcating two rooms – accommodating four adults and three children – there was no place for a television. There was no means for one, either. But the children would huddle to look at pictures of airplanes in frayed school textbooks, or in a picture book someone had bought during their latest trip to the nearest city, which happened to be four hours away by train. When, at four, Ramya realized the plane wasn’t a vehicle of gods as her grandma had told her, but something man-made for people to fly in, she started waiting for the day when she would get to be one of those people. Until then, the three of them would write their names and wishes on paper and make a plane out of it. But Ramya’s plane never went farther than the little mound near their house. So, she made a paper boat instead. Even a little stream of water carried her boat away, but the skill to make the plane ride the winds remained elusive.

Now, at fifty-four, pushing the trolley cart carrying two large Safari bags with one hand – adjusting the purse on her shoulder busily with the other – Ramya was only a few hours away from her first flight. Yet, all the anticipation for it had gone. Where is it lost? She wondered. Did it vanish in the planning for her long journey? Or in the stress of airport procedures? Or was it lost in the fear of a new life that was only two flights away? No, that something from childhood that makes one anticipate went long ago.

Only a vague apprehension remained; a fear of failing at her new role as a chef in her son’s restaurant and catering business, or worse, of disappointing him as well, of losing the one important relationship she had been able to preserve throughout the years. What if he too starts thinking like his father did? If he starts to resent me when I mess up? If I let him down? Everything is pleasant when you talk once a week on the phone. Distance keeps resentment at bay, shields the flaws and errors. But what if familiarity builds it up, till it becomes contempt, as they say?

Ramya saw people eating at a cafe. The aroma of fresh baking and coffee wafted and filled the air-conditioned airport space. Her stomach grumbled; she hadn’t eaten anything for a while. She checked the time on her old mobile. More than seven hours left till her flight, and Narayan had told her five hours was enough even for a first-timer. But what if something goes wrong on the way? If something takes longer than Narayan’s estimate? She took out a small peanut bar from her purse and munched it hurriedly, finishing it in a few large bites. Once I reach the gate, I’ll eat something more.

Narayan had dinned the details of how to proceed at the airport into her, but when Ramya looked at people printing their own boarding passes and bag tags through self-check-in kiosks, she fidgeted with her bag, looking around frantically. She saw a man in airport uniform walk by, but she quickly averted her gaze so as not to make eye contact. Narayan had said they’d check the passport and tickets and issue a boarding pass. What is this machine now? What should I do? In the distance, a longer queue had formed for Air Canada flights. The kiosks seemed faster, and her legs were sore already, but she hurried toward the queue.

After a good hour, she had checked her bags in, but nothing was going as she had memorized. Her purse had to be re-screened during the security check. “You are supposed to take out all the liquids as well, not just the electronics, ma’am. Any makeup items, sunscreens, whatever else you have,” the man who re-checked her purse had told her. Ramya was flustered. Narayan told me to take out electronics. He must have forgotten about the liquids. I must look so stupid now.

When she passed through the immigration section, and wasn’t asked many questions by the officer, she felt a little relief. Brief and to the point, that was how her son had taught her to answer. And it worked. Now all she had to do was go to her gate. Just then, an announcement stopped her in her tracks. Agitated, she rummaged through her crowded purse for her mobile, and with some hesitation, dialed one of the few contacts saved in it.

After the ninth ring, Narayan picked up. Before he could say anything, Ramya began, “Naru . . . there was an announcement just now. My flight is delayed. By eight hours she said.”

“Amma, calm down. I haven’t received an email about any such delay. Wait. I’ll check and call you back.”

“Yes . . . yes . . . hurry.” Holding her mobile in her hand, Ramya waited for her son’s call and picked it up as soon as it vibrated, before it even rang.

“Amma. There’s no delay. I checked it.”

“But the woman on the speaker –”

“Did you actually pay attention to the announcement?” Narayan interrupted curtly. “You just heard the words ‘Mumbai’ and ‘Toronto’ and called me in panic. Yours is a connecting flight. Till Frankfurt, amma.”

“Ah yes . . . I . . . I must have made a mistake.”

“Anyway, how did everything else go? It wasn’t too difficult, right?”

“It went smoothly,” she lied. She didn’t want him to be stressed because of her. No, she didn’t want to make it sound like she, at fifty-four, couldn’t manage the kinds of things even the teens around seemed to be doing so effortlessly.

“Call me if there’s an emergency. I am in the kitchen now. Customers are waiting.”

“Yes . . . you focus on cooking. I’ll manage,” she tried to assure him.

“Enjoy your flight then. And ask someone to take your pic. This is your first flight. It’s big!” His tone was much lighter now. Ramya imagined Narayan smiling, and she smiled too, trying not to worry him by worrying.

---

ONCE SHE FINALLY reached her gate, she purchased a plate of samosa. She didn’t want anything deep-fried, but this was the most inexpensive option on the menu, and the most filling. Everything is just so expensive here. I’ll get something on the flight. Narayan said they’d give food. She was a little giddy thinking about the complimentary meal on the flight.

At first, Ramya was going to sit right by the screening area, so she’d not miss the announcement to board. But there were four hours remaining, so, with some hesitation, she sat next to the big glass panels that afforded a view of the arriving and departing airplanes from the waiting area.

Ramya remembered the first time she had seen what a plane actually looked like up close, on a TV. Up in the sky, it always looked like a tiny tube with two unmoving wings, far less impressive than a bird, though modelled after it. But at night, when all birds settled in their nests, the plane still flew with flecks of red, green, and blue, flashing on either side. As she grew, her fascination increased. The airplane traversed far greater distances than any bird, and so much faster. Ramya gaped at the planes now and was surprised at how big they actually were. For something so huge, it flew with an ease even her paper plane couldn’t achieve.

Ramya had watched a plane land on a grassy slope in a cartoon once. In that show, men with wide-brimmed hats and women in summer dresses climbed a cute little moving stair and stepped into it. Since then, she used to imagine that all she had to do was step into one, and it would take her to anywhere her heart desired. To pristine white beaches, to romantic Paris nights or the Amalfi coast, to mountain peaks hidden behind fog, to a freer life. But where is this freedom? Is it something as enigmatic as the skill to fly a paper plane? Even in her dreams, Ramya hadn’t managed to make her plane fly beyond their little village mound. It was as if something invisible always blocked it.

A few seats away, a woman flipped the pages of a book. It was a thick one, and from where she sat, Ramya couldn’t see the title, or even the back cover. She considered it for a while. Because we inhabit our own lives, we think we know ourselves through all our changes. But isn’t it all like a very long book too? If we flip through the first pages, then go to the last few, so much has often changed in between that it’s hardly the same character anymore. In a book, I can at least see the last pages, the blurb, and the title. What will the last pages of my life look like? In this later stage of her life, Ramya could hardly find what she used to be. There was an identity stretched through time, held together by threads of memory, but somehow, the essence of her identity had changed. There was hardly a trace of that child who was dreamy, who was confident – neither too much nor too little – the one who used to think of the world as a bright and vast place of endless opportunities. And now, all I seek are darker corners and shadows to hide in. Where no one will see my failures, my empty life. Why do we think of the better parts of ourselves as our essential core? What if what has replaced those better parts is the real core? All Ramya had now were the memories of her childhood. They were happy despite her family’s poverty. But are distant memories really enough to live by? They only ever cause longing now. Longing for something which can never again be.

When did it all change? When did I change so much? She couldn’t think of one specific moment or particular year. But there were some major events which she could use as reference points. Was it after marriage? Or did it start even before that? Hers was an arranged marriage decided by their respective families. But Ramya liked her husband fairly well, so there was no cause for an objection, though no big romance ever blossomed either. They had more or less a stable and a quiet life at first, even with her mother-in-law living with them.

Within a year of marriage, Ramya had given birth to Narayan. The three of them had decided it was best for her to take care of her son, rather than go out and work. But after a while, when her mother-in-law started saying, “How much are you going to earn with a degree in Home Science? The meagre fifteen, sixteen thousand rupees you’ll make will be spent hiring cooks and maids to cater to the house in your absence,” or when her husband said, “Well, this is your home. You can apply all the ‘home science’ here. I can’t imagine such a job to be interesting, anyway,” Ramya couldn’t help but feel a sting in her heart. It was her decision, too. But my reasons were different. Maybe I should have said something to her, and to him, at that time.

Sitting idly in her chair, Ramya looked at people doing something or other as they waited for the flight. She took out a jasmine from her purse and smelled it out of habit. It had the usual sweet, comforting fragrance. She was about to stuff it in her pants pocket when a little boy running around bumped against her legs. Ramya hadn’t worn a saree because she didn’t want Narayan to be embarrassed if his neighbours spotted her. She smiled at the boy, and decided to part with her jasmine to give it to him.

When Ramya had shifted to Mumbai after marriage, she had been uneasy because of the lack of space. In her village, even though her house was small, there were lots of open spaces outside. But in Mumbai, everything was cramped; millions of strangers living in small apartments piled one on top of another. So, Ramya turned the little balcony in their apartment into her own haven. Even though there was hardly enough sitting space for two, she set up a small swing and potted a few jasmine plants. Every morning, she would sit on the swing while having her tea. The fragrance of the jasmine would mingle with the aroma of the tea, and the routine, even though short, would be enough for her to look forward to mornings every day. But the passage of time started changing things.

One morning, when Ramya had been sitting on the swing as usual, she had heard her mother-in-law murmur, “In my days, we used to finish all the preparations for the day by six in the morning. But then again, we were more resilient with four, five kids each. You all are lucky to be so idle with just one child nowadays and nothing else to do.” After Narayan’s birth, Ramya hadn’t been able to conceive again. Secondary infertility, the doctor had called it. The tacit understanding – which she had considered mutual – that what she did for the house was of some value, had turned to expressions of scorn, poorly hidden mockery, and even contempt.

Ramya had decided not to pay attention to any taunts, and to continue to reserve those fifteen, twenty minutes of her morning routine all for herself. Even so, the next time her mother-in-law complained in front of her husband, Ramya peeked inside to see if he would say something, anything, to defend her, but he only uttered a “Hmmm,” as if in agreement. Until then, Ramya had thought only words and actions could hurt. The next day, with some stubbornness, as if to prove to herself that she couldn’t be bothered by it, she decided to sit out for even longer. But without realizing it, she started bending a little from time to time while swinging, to check the clock on the living room wall. After half a cup she would start feeling restless, and after fifteen minutes she would go inside, convincing herself that she felt too hot on the balcony, or that it was boring out there. She would come in and start working in the kitchen, even if an additional five minutes of sitting outside would have made no difference. For the principle of it, she had still continued to sit on the balcony with her cup in the belief that it was her time alone, that she had a right to it. But the tea wasn’t as refreshing any longer, nor the jasmine’s fragrance as sweet. Relaxing had already become a chore. And pleasure something one forces oneself to indulge in, because one believes one has to have some joys in life.

Ramya looked around. Planes were flying in and out, announcements were made, people were sitting or hurrying, but everyone was confident and purposeful. But I am slow, and not always purposeful. Why does everything have to have a purpose? She used to think that life was, above all, to be experienced, and that there was value, and meaning, even in a steady, well-lived life, even if one didn’t do a lot of things. But her beliefs, just like her whole being, seemed to be obsolete now. But even when I did do things, they weren’t of much merit, anyway. The little boy she had given her jasmine to had placed it in the seat of his toy car. What is the purpose of a jasmine? Who could say? But for its beauty, for its fragrance, we still like it. She used to think the flower’s beauty was an inherent quality meant to add beauty to the world. Only later did she learn it was to attract bugs and bees to pollinate. Its beauty did have value, a purpose. But what is the inherent value of a person? If stripped of everything else, is there any? Maybe in the grand scheme of things, my life might have some meaning too, some purpose. Just not any I can see right now. Even with its beauty, usually no one thinks twice before trampling a flower, much less a leaf.

Long suppressed, all her thoughts were coming to the surface. Why now? Perhaps, it’s because this is the last of life as I have known it. Ramya rarely allowed these thoughts to come to the surface and fill up her mind, like the persistent moss over a lake, but everything buried came out during transitory stages of life. But will this be a permanent transition, or will I come back? Ramya couldn’t yet see. Her vision blurring, she rubbed her eyes, then closed them to stop them from flowing. Soon, exhausted by her thoughts, she fell asleep.

---

“RAMYA NADAR? Ramya Nadar?” Ramya thought she heard her name in a dream. It was the little tap on her shoulder that woke her up with a startle.

A woman in uniform was standing in front of her with questioning irritation all over her face. “Are you Mrs. Ramya Nadar?”

“Yes . . . I . . . I am Ramya.”

“We were about to close the gate. The final call has been made a while back. We have been calling your name. You’ll be the last person to board.”

Panicked, Ramya got up. Her first thought was to check the mobile for her alarm. Why didn’t it ring? Or did I not hear it? She was so tired, so exhausted, she had fallen deeply asleep. In her agitation, she mistakenly dropped something.

“Your passport.” The woman taking her to the checkpoint gave her the passport. After scanning her boarding pass and checking her visa, she was quickly led in.

Ramya looked around, unable to meet the other passengers’ eyes, though she could feel them looking at her. They must be judging me. I know they are judging me for being late. Everyone had resumed stowing their luggage, but Ramya hardly noticed that as she looked down and walked to her seat.

A middle-aged woman sat on the aisle seat and a young woman in the middle. Both of them were Caucasian, but they didn’t look related. They had to get up to make room for Ramya. Narayan had booked a window seat so she could look out.

Soon, the safety protocols were explained. An air hostess stood in the centre and wordlessly demonstrated how to pull the oxygen mask down, how to put it on the face, etc. Ramya looked around. The young woman in the middle was yawning and the woman in the aisle seat was reading a book. Why is no one taking these safety protocols seriously? This is so important. She sat straight and tried to focus, but she was still reeling from the embarrassment. How did I miss the announcement? I almost lost my passport too. Is this even worth it? While walking to her seat, she had almost wished that the flight would be cancelled, that she could go back now, before it was too late. What are the chances of succeeding at something you have never done before at fifty-four, when you haven’t tasted success in even being able to make a paper plane fly? In even being able to take a flight without being a blundering fool? Surely, helping run a restaurant is more difficult than that.

The air hostesses had started to make the rounds to check if everyone was seated properly. One of them asked Ramya to strap her seat belt and straighten her backrest. But Ramya, still unnerved, didn’t know how to do that. The air hostess was coming again, and Ramya still squirmed in her seat, unable to do it. The woman beside her, who had been watching out of the corner of her eye, turned to help her put the seat belt on and pressed the button on the handrest to straighten her seatback. Ramya muttered a low “thank you,” but her hands still shook. It was a nervous tick she had developed after being hit for the first time.

The first time her husband had slapped her, she was in complete shock. He thought she had given the wrong medicine to his mother, only to later learn that his mother had swallowed it herself, owing to the increasing memory loss caused by her advancing dementia. The second time he slapped her, she was afraid. She feared it might become a habit, something that would keep happening again and again. Now I can’t even remember what my error then was. Was it big enough to warrant it? It was something related to them losing money because she got scammed after clicking a link she shouldn’t have. The third time it happened, she was certain. Certain that it would happen from time to time, could happen anytime. That it would keep happening. But it was so unpredictable, and over a different thing each time. How was I to know? One day, he would hit me over something which on another day wouldn’t even cause him to frown. He never apologized. He did take her to restaurants, though to less expensive ones over time, till that too became a chore. A routine. Maybe that was his way of saying sorry. But he never said it. Not for that. How could I have been sure if he felt it, when he never said it? How could I have been sure of anything? Ramya started being unsure of more and more things from then on. After her mother-in-law passed away, and as they got older, such incidents reduced, but now and then, it would still happen.

Once, Ramya had talked to a neighbour about it, and she had received some sympathy too, but never warmth. Ramya never realized she needed it, though a feeling inside, a wish for it, remained. The woman had said, “That’s something I didn’t expect someone like Vikram to do. But why didn’t you do anything the first time it happened? If we allow our husbands to hit us once, it’s bound to happen again and again. We shouldn’t indulge their bad habits.” Perhaps what the neighbour had said was true. But now that it had already happened, what was she supposed to do?

Her mother had been distressed when Ramya had talked to her about it. Ramya had gone to stay with her mother then, till Vikram had come to pick her up. She thought of Narayan’s future, his need to grow up in an intact family, and her resolution crumbled. Maybe it was my own cowardice, too. Or my fear of a big change. I could neither get used to it, nor leave.

Her mother had taken Ramya’s hand in hers and tried to console her. “Every relationship has its ups and downs. You have told me when he doesn’t . . . when he doesn’t hit you, he is generally nice. My father used to cheat on my mother. My mother used to say it hurt her much more than being battered would have.” Ramya, after talking to a few people – though agreeing with their logic – found no closure, no relief. She stopped talking to others about it. She stopped talking almost altogether. She never talked about it to her sister, or her brother. It was not so much that she expected no support from them, but rather that she didn’t want to mar her memories of their shared childhood, when they had been together in an ignorant but sacred bliss. If they, especially her sister, didn’t give Ramya the tenderness she only vaguely knew she wanted, if her sister too thought it was her fault somehow, it might make her question whether their shared days of happiness were real. Ramya couldn’t risk that. A newfound anxiety had set in, and it only kept increasing with age.

Ramya’s train of thought came to a halt when the plane started to move. It will catch speed soon. What if I feel like vomiting then? Narayan said it won’t cause motion sickness like being in a car, but what if it does for me? Ramya had taken a tablet to prevent nausea. What if it doesn’t work? The plane kept accelerating on the runway till it took off. Ramya felt something drop in the pit of her belly. She felt her head spin on looking down, but once the plane stabilized a little, she couldn’t move her gaze away from what she saw outside.

Within seconds, they flew past the airport premises. Beyond the airport, she could see the blue roofs of the slums dotting the grounds. Then she watched the roads get tinier, looking like grey snakes with toy cars moving on them. Whenever Ramya used to be stuck in Mumbai traffic, feeling helpless, she would envy those on a plane. Now she was in one, and within moments she crossed the roads many were stuck on. A slow, childlike excitement rose in her.

Soon, the shoreline came into view. The land, which used to seem so insurmountable with all its people and their lives, was now a dwarf engulfed by the vast Arabian Sea. Ramya had seen the sea, but never from above. Golden light shone on her, and she was behind clouds, soaring in and out of them within the curve of the sky. Looking at the blue and the white, something was springing up inside her. The vision, the realization, was only growing stronger. She held her breath. A moment more, and it would explode like the water that gushed out from the ground when they dug the village well.

“Excuse me.” The woman sitting on the aisle seat broke Ramya’s trance, and all her thoughts plummeted into the netherworld of her mind again.

“Do you mind putting the shutter down? I am trying to sleep,” the middle-aged woman all but demanded.

Ramya felt her heart sink. She wanted to look out of the window. She had always wanted to look at the world from a plane. How do I say no? The girl sitting in the middle, who had been almost sticking to her seat to create space for them to talk, started fishing something out of her bag. She found an eye mask and offered it to the irritated woman beside her.

“Do you mind putting this on? Don’t worry. It’s brand new. I just got it from the airport. Actually, I’m a photographer. I just wanted to take a few cool aerial pics.”

The older woman looked like she wanted to protest, but reluctantly took the eye mask and put it on. Ramya hadn’t caught all of what they talked about, but she understood the girl had helped her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“The part about me being a photographer wasn’t a lie. A street photographer. And I do want to click a pic of you. You looked pretty taken aback by the scenery below. By the way, I am Emily.” Emily came a little closer and whispered, “Only the part about the eye mask being brand new was a lie.” Ramya chuckled a little. When Emily asked, Ramya briefly told her she was going to Toronto as well. Ramya was grateful and wanted to say something more, and she was nervous about her picture being taken, but she didn’t want to speak any more than absolutely necessary. She thought her South Indian English accent would sound laughable. She’ll think it’s funny and probably won’t even understand it.

Ramya looked out. Even the sea wasn’t visible now. Only the expanse of the unending sky remained.

---

AS RAMYA WAITED at the Frankfurt airport, this time going through the procedures far more smoothly, fleeting glimpses of insight were coming back. She had begun to grasp just how big a giant her mind made of the little things. Something else occurred to her. She sighed in regret when she thought about Emily, to whom she hadn’t introduced herself. But that wasn’t her main thought. A bit higher. I have to go a bit higher for it to come back again.

As her self-esteem had reduced and her anxiety increased, she had stopped meeting new people. Introductions were difficult for her now, and Ramya had lost the habit of saying “thank you” and “sorry” too. A “sorry” was especially difficult. She once used to say “sorry” each time something went wrong. Whether it was her fault or not. Once she uttered a “sorry,” her husband or his mother would double down on her faults, or even make them up, using her “sorry” as evidence of them. Later, when she felt regret, she never expressed it. With that, somehow her ability to express gratitude diminished as well. But the corresponding feelings inside remained, suppressed, and only grew stronger.

This time, Ramya stood in the queue as soon as the gate opened. She walked straight to her window seat. A young boy sat in the middle and an elderly man sat in the aisle seat. The boy’s family seemed to be a few rows away, a younger sibling and his mother. Ramya spotted Emily waddling her way through. Ramya raised her hand, then put it down. With some hesitation, she raised it again and waved at her, with a smile this time. Emily smiled back and started talking to the mother of the boy sitting in the middle. Soon, the boy got up and left, and Emily came and sat next to Ramya.

“I didn’t get the chance to take your photo last time. I just had my mobile then, but I have my baby with me now.” Emily flashed a smile as she patted her DSLR. Ramya nodded.

The plane had slowly started moving toward the runway. Ramya looked out and saw a few small houses specked on the green plain in the distance. It was bright outside, and it looked as if it was neither too hot nor too cold. Just the right temperature. The houses had slanted roofs, unlike the flat terraces in Mumbai. It was funny. She had drawn houses of exactly this kind – colourful with slanting roofs and an attic – though she had never lived in one of them herself. It was all like the miniature toy land she couldn’t afford to buy as a child, but had saved enough to buy for Narayan. I am truly, finally, on a different continent now. The realization was slowly sinking in.

As the flight took off, she looked at the many-colored, neatly plowed patches of fields stretching below. They looked like squares of green and yellow. Grassy slopes and winding fields. It looked idyllic. Huge grounds with windmills came into view. Now and then, when the clouds cleared, she could see cute settlements below.

In eight hours, she’d reach Toronto and start her new job. People faulted her with almost everything, except for her cooking. Now, far away from the soil, in the safety of the sky, having allowed her memories to wash over her being, the thought came with the force of an epiphany. Relief filled her at the inner voice of her soul’s confession. A confession she had not been able to make since she had first said “yes” to Narayan’s proposal. Ramya remembered it at last. When Narayan had first proposed the idea of Ramya helping him with his restaurant, she had laughed it off. She had reflected back the laughter she had heard so often when she had suggested that she could take up cooking as a real job. If she didn’t laugh at it, she would have to acknowledge that she took it seriously, and if she failed to act, or failed to see it through, it would bring another wave of pain.

But now, so many feet above the ground, in the middle of heaven and earth, she could finally accept that it was her decision to shift to Canada. To start, even at fifty-four, a new life. To place her hope in the future, even with all its risks and potential for causing suffering and failure. Something had changed during the flights. One bird’s-eye view of your life, of an awe-inspiring sight of the world, is enough to make you see a new vista. Elevation, that was what was lacking. Height was what was needed. She permitted herself to think only of the brightness the future might hold, and looked at her childhood with a bitter-sweet nostalgia rather than with longing and pain. She tried to leave the past behind. She looked forward to going to a new country, to walking along the shore of the enormous Lake Ontario her son had shown her during a video call.

It was difficult, but Ramya turned and cleared her throat to gain Emily’s attention.

“I had forgotten to introduce myself last time. My name is Ramya Nadar.” Ramya’s voice was barely a whisper at first, but then she repeated herself louder, not trying to hide her accent any longer. “When you take my photo, can you share it with me? Actually, this is my first time flying. I want to have a memory of it.”

Emily switched her camera screen on and showed something to Ramya. “I have already taken it. I wanted a candid shot. Can I use this for a contest I am entering? And you say this is your first flight? Second now, technically. That was my guess. But I didn’t want to offend you by talking about it too much. You looked a little guarded before, so I didn’t take your pic then. But look at your expression here. I can’t explain it, but something has changed somehow, though it has only been a few hours. And for the better. I’m rambling. Sorry about that.” After finishing, Emily looked a little flustered.

“I know,” Ramya said, and gave Emily a warm smile. She looked at her picture. In the mirror, Ramya hadn’t found anything beautiful in the last few decades. Now, looking at herself half-smiling, half-about-to-cry, while watching the quilted clouds, a tender feeling arose.

“If you use it, will you let me know?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t keep it hidden in my closet.” They exchanged numbers. Ramya gave Emily Narayan’s email address so she could share the picture with them. I might share it with Kartik and Sharanya too. I will ask them how they have been, how they really have been, and tell them how I have been since so long.

Ramya placed her head on the window. The mellow rays of the sun, and the blue above and below, made her dizzy. For the first time in a while, she was so relaxed that she couldn’t be bothered to think about what would happen once she arrived, about how it would go once she reached her destination. She drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

This time, instead of the familiar heaviness, all her dreams took the shape of a paper plane. Light like a feather, gliding with the winds, her white plane, glistening under the sun, rose high, then higher, till it crossed the mound near their house. It didn’t stop there. It continued to soar further and crossed their little village, the entire land, and flew above the Arabian Sea. Over the sea, it continued flying toward the outline of a place where the dreamer and the dreams meet, where desire and the future touch.

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