"Oshi, please. Uncle is waiting for us."
    I am sitting in a renovated immigration hall with too much time on my hands.
    "Oshi, please!"
    The lines are getting smaller, but I look forward to the arrival of 747s from Frankfurt and Hong Kong. A woman beside me shoos her young daughter away. She is kneeling on white marble, resembling the Taj Mahal, and scribes in black letters the details of her arrival card.

She's finished. Mother and daughter leave for an awaiting Uncle. They file through Indian Customs and disappear within the night lit streets of New Delhi. Outside, a full moon keeps the shadows short and shines through the city's haze. I breathe as I watch Oshi and her mother leave. I inhale the atmosphere of India, my nose drawing in a lungful of breath. I exhale its customs and culture, relaxing into a seat as hours linger like lost baggage. I’m back in India. I’ve never felt so at home.