As we waited for the rest of our suitcases to make their way around the revolving carousel, I glanced around wondering which of the faces belonged to Meena. Meena, the girl who had beaten me at every turn in life. The daughter my mother had always wanted. The Regina George of my existence.

“Where’s Meena?” I finally asked Ahmed—who I had deciphered was Meena’s younger brother from the bits of conversation occurring around me. The wiry patch of facial hair growing at the bottom of his chin allowed me to deduce he must’ve been about sixteen years old.

“She’s at home,” he said, quickly taking the large suitcase from my mother’s hand as she waited for the next round. Sixteen-year-old boys in America were not nearly as well-mannered, and I could tell she was impressed by his chivalry and respect.

“She is thrilled you and aunty have come all this way for the wedding.” He turned to me and grinned. “She’s really looking forward to meeting you, Leila!” I returned the smile, not quite sure how to respond.

Once we finally got the last of our bags, I followed my mother and the rest of the clan as we exited the airport. The moment we stepped outside, I instantly felt like all of my senses were being assaulted at once. My parents had always described the crowds and chaos of Mumbai, but it was something else to actually experience it. The cars and motorbikes whizzed past us on the busy streets ahead. Rickshaw drivers shouted across the concrete barriers, urging us to take a ride, salivating greedily at the prospect of ripping off foreigners. I squinted and tried not to make eye contact with the swarms of drivers fighting for our attention. I was modestly dressed in jeans and a track jacket, but I still felt slightly self-conscious. All of the women in the family—young and old—were dressed in dark-colored abayas and long-sleeved salwar kameezes. As a single stream of perspiration dripped down my back, I wondered how they were all not melting in their layered attire. I looked over at my mother, who was wiping her face with the edge of her dupatta, and I was glad I wasn’t the only one experiencing hot flashes.

The air was sticky, and the smells of smoke, sweat, and exhaust fumes permeated our noses as we made our way toward the side parking lot, where we were introduced to Sahil, the family driver. He was standing in front of a red four-door Maruti Suzuki with a metal basket attached to the roof, smoking a cigarette—which he immediately tossed to the ground when he saw us approaching. As I watched him hoist my and my mother’s belongings into the basket, I could not help but wonder if the weight of our suitcases was equivalent to that of the entire car.

The other family members motioned toward the rickshaw drivers, and within seconds, there were three drivers lined up in front of us. “Kahan ja rahe ho?” the drivers asked, and the aunties noisily rattled off the directions. Despite their conservative dress, the female relatives were the ones who seemed to take charge, while the male relatives just waited around. Ahmed took the front seat of the Maruti, while Jamila aunty squeezed into the back seat with me and my mother. Feeling the tires sink into the asphalt as I sat down next to the window, I nervously clutched the small messenger bag in my lap and said a quick prayer as we slowly edged our way onto the road, the three brightly colored rickshaws following closely behind us.