When she landed in Chennai, there were endless lines, blurs of women cloaked in bright pink, green, and orange saris; dark men handing over stacks of passports and worn luggage; wide-eyed children draped along the floor in tired piles. The place swirled and churned, and she felt bombarded by her senses. Bodies grazed and pushed and jostled, and the air—it seemed a living thing, surging into her like a live current. She felt as if she were wading through warm molasses, each step an achievement in itself.

She made her way through the arrival terminal, managed customs and immigration, found her luggage, but when she exited the airport, she felt the crush of this new world and desperately wished she had a guide to deliver her safely to her hotel. She knew the hotel address, and on the map it was only an inch from the airport, but now the airport seemed a continent, and all she wanted was to have Devesh rescue her. She could call him, tell him she was here, and to please come get her, but she did not want to come to him fragile and helpless.

At the curb was a line of motley-looking cabs. Young, mustached men rested on open doors, sat on hoods, and slept in driver’s seats. She took a few tentative steps in their direction and was bombarded with cries of “Madam, Madam!” She chose a tall man in a formal white shirt. He lifted her suitcase into the trunk, and she slid into the backseat.

On the dash was a brightly colored statue of Lakshmi, two hands holding lotus flowers, the other two broken at the wrists.

“Where to, Madam?” he asked.

She had found and booked the hotel online, and she handed him a slip of paper with the name and address.

“Hotel Dakshin is not so nice,” he said. “I’ll take you to a much nicer place, closer to the water. Very nice.”

“No. It’s okay.”

“Very nice, Madam. I take you there.”

“No,” she said. She could feel the threat of tears, and she clenched her teeth.

He shrugged.

“How much?” she said.

“Five hundred rupees.”