Never mind the slick shops, the leather bags and coats, the paperbacks in stacks, the arrogant wines, and cafes where water costs a pound and a half. I have only a five pound note, and in the airport entanglement of faraway bonds pulling and pushing, I want to call home. With a bottle of water I don't need--I have been drinking juices all the way from that morning in Kolkata--I look for a phone. The phones are bright yellow and smooth metal, with instructions printed above them in several languages. I read, and other announcements play from the ceiling, calmly drifting to seats where bored passengers wait and their children climb over and under things, inside bathrooms where lone travellers keep alert eyes on their bags, to smart young couples walking along to boarding gates, to all people in the bright shining flurry of here and there, with little bits of sadness hidden under the potted plants.

Then I slip a coin, and another, and another into the slot, pick up the old fashioned receiver and dial. Ma told me to call, don't worry about calculating the time, she said. Three rings. And there she was, like she had been waiting.