Dear Diary:
Walking through SoHo last weekend, we came upon a scattering of index cards at West Houston and Thompson Streets that fluttered on the summer sidewalk as if they were alive. On one side, someone had printed English words in blue ink. Startled, we found each sentence translated into Hindi when we flipped the cards over.
“Can I talk to Ankita?†the first card read.
The next card seemed to answer the first: “This is Ankita speaking.â€
Being the children of fluent Hindi speakers, we examined the rest of the cards, enchanted by the voices that spoke in such familiar language. “It seems that this coat is too big!†one of the cards complained. “Do you have this in any other colors?†another asked.
We considered leaving the cards on the sidewalk where we found them. After all, the sentences were ordinary. But I couldn’t bear leaving them behind; the voices might have belonged to my family. I put the cards into my backpack and carried them back to Boston, where I’ve set them out on my desk.
I keep glancing back at the words. “It’s been hot in India all year long!†one says. “Do you have anything cheaper than this?†And then one asks me, “When will you come back to the city?â€
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