They Sounded the Same
“Ahhh!” I screamed as I saw something jumping out of the corner of the bathroom. My mom rushed in. “It’s a frog,” she pointed out. “Calm down.” My first thought was that a frog would never be in my bathroom in Connecticut. Last night, I’d walked out of the airport, stepping onto Chennai soil. ‘There’s no going back now,’ I thought. Before we got on the plane in New York, my dad asked us to wave goodbye. “We aren’t going to come back here,” he said. Being ten years old, that felt very final. No one told me I’d start sweating buckets as soon as I stepped out of the air-conditioned airport. Next to me, my five-year-old sister wrinkled her nose. She was bundled up in a pink sweater, wearing a purple backpack. “Ewww. What’s that smell?” “It’s the sewage smell,” my dad informed me as he hailed a taxi. The only welcome we got from Chennai was a suffocating hug from the April heat. I had a house in Chennai, but it wasn’t set up yet. My parents built it in the early days of their marriage. Toni...