The drive to my mother’s family home was nauseating. The car kept weaving in and out of lanes. Cars were honking, people were shouting. I couldn’t figure out why they even had lanes on the roads when clearly no one bothered to stay in them. I gripped the side handlebar on the door, knuckles white, and glanced over at my mother to see if she was aware of all the traffic rules being violated by the second. But she was fully preoccupied with Jamila aunty as the two of them talked loudly and excitedly over the noise of the busy streets around us. The two sisters were only a few years apart and strikingly similar in terms of facial features, talking styles, and personality. My mother and Jamila aunty had remained close over the years; they had written letters back in the day, which eventually turned into emails, and they spoke regularly on the phone, keeping each other posted on the recent goings-on in their lives—hence the constant Meena updates. Finally together for the first time in over two decades, they were completely unfazed by the commotion around us, focusing solely on each other, making up for lost time.

As Sahil squeezed past a truck and a motorcycle with an entire family on it—a turbaned man in the front, a sari-clad woman seated behind him holding an infant, and two small children wedged in between—I clenched my eyes shut, praying we would not claim one of the small children as a casualty. My bad driving skills back home were a joke compared to these drivers. I kept my eyes shut and continued reciting a prayer. I came to the conclusion that a drive through Mumbai was all it took to make someone religious.

Suddenly the Maruti jerked to an abrupt stop. I opened my eyes, silently hoping that we had safely reached our destination without any mangled children, but much to my disappointment, we instead found ourselves in the middle of heavy gridlock. “What is happening, Sahil?” Jamila aunty leaned forward and asked from the back seat.

“I don’t know, madam. Let me take a look.” Sahil opened the driver’s-side door and stood up on the edge of the seat, peering over the rows of honking cars in front of us. He shaded his eyes with the back of his arm. After a few moments, he sat back in the car, wiping the sweat from his brow, and calmly said, “It is a cow, madam. It has stopped in the middle of the road.”

“Oh, I see,” she said without reaction.

“Did he just say a cow?” I asked, looking over at my mother.

My mother nodded. “Yes, Leila, a cow.” Her tone was so matter-of-fact that I actually felt ridiculous for attempting to push for any more information. A cow had stopped traffic. Of course. This was India. This made perfect sense.

“So how long will it be?” Jamila aunty asked impatiently.

“Hopefully not long, madam. We are just waiting for it to cross.”