Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood by Varsha Bajaj Page A

frying something in a huge wok. My senses take over. I’ve never seen so many people within inches of cars and rickshaws. I’m terrified that Dad will hit human, animal, or thing.
    I see children with bare feet and tattered clothes playing tag by makeshift homes. They approach our car at the stoplight, begging for money. I’ve seen the occasional adult ask for money at home, but I’ve never seen children who seem to have so little. Dad can see I’m upset. He rolls down the window to awed shrieks of “Naveen Kumar!” and hands
    out little bags of biscuits. “Your grandma makes these and always has them in the car.” The expression on his face says he wishes he could do more.
    I don’t know how to react and the stoplight turns green.
    The stray, mangy dogs rummaging through garbage is a sight that would be seared in my memory.
    Across the street, a tall apartment complex gleams, polished and new.
    “Abby, Mumbai’s contrasts, the poverty and the wealth, can be difficult. You have probably never seen hardship like this at home. Do you want to talk about it?”
    “Dad, I don’t know where to start. The kids…” I say and stop. I can’t find the words. Dad understands. “Know that you can come to me.”
    My eyes pop at the next intersection when I see a cow coolly sitting and swishing her tail in the middle of the chaotic street.
    She’s slimmer than any cow I’ve seen at home, but there she sits in the middle of the road, the undisputed queen of her kingdom. Traffic weaves around her. Google already told me cows are sacred in India.
    “Welcome to India,” Dad says.
    In that instant I open the window, throw my fears out, and click a picture.
    We drive past an open-air bazaar. Fresh vegetables and fruit are piled on handcarts. The greens, reds, and yellows
    of the saris flapping in the wind are irresistible. “Dad,” I yell, “slow down, I need to take another picture.”
    I realize that Dad’s house and style of living is not typical of the rest of India. It’s as if I’m living in the Trump Tower in New York. I haven’t seen this kind of poverty and neither have I experienced the wealth of my dad’s lifestyle.

Chapter 13
Friends old and new
    The next morning, rested and energized, I go downstairs to a quiet house. Dad is away, shooting a new film, and his entourage is with him. I thought we were supposed to spend time together. I’ve waited thirteen years and traveled halfway across the world—8,000 miles in a yucky airplane—to Mumbai, and he can’t take some time off to spend time with his only daughter?
    Grandma Tara rests. She’s tired after yesterday’s excitement. I can hear Shiva, Bina, and Mina’s voices from the kitchen and go looking for them.
    “Namaste,” I say as I walk in.
    Mina looks at Bina for approval then says, “Good morning,” in her accented English. Then she bursts into giggles of embarrassment.
    I giggle back, partly embarrassed by the way they all jump to attention whenever I walk into a room.
    The bougainvillea vine outside the kitchen window is a riot of pink. The roar of ocean waves and the sound of occasional car horns waft through the open window. People here, I realized yesterday, honk whenever they want with little guilt. The open windows also bring in the humidity. The temperature is in the low eighties. While this street is not as busy as the market we drove through yesterday, it’s way busier than the streets I’m used to in my neighborhood. The kitchen counter has almost fifty gleaming stainless steel cups arranged on trays. The morning sun glints off the
    cups, almost blinding us.
    “What are these for?” I ask, pointing to the cups.
    Mina and Bina giggle again. Shiva gives them “the look.” It’s funny how “the look” is the same across cultures! My mom has given me that same look many times.
    “I tell after breakfast,” Shiva says.
    “Indian breakfast?” I ask, my stomach growling.
    I realize that Shiva has as much difficulty with my