Ganapati muni biography of barack obama

A woman yells at a man sitting with his wife and child—“Go back to Delhi!” Her shouts fade as I’m carried along a human wave to another line, another frisk, a shuttlebus to my gate, all the while wondering what he said or did—definitely something lewd. (And in front of his wife and kid!) The wind from the bus windows smells like diesel and over-ripe bananas. In the sprawl of shelters stacked along the airport’s borders, a woman hangs laundry while her son tries to get his kite to lift like the airplanes on the runway.

These were my first glimpses of Mumbai in January , a sort of faraway nearby—a long, not-so-long time ago. My husband was my live-in boyfriend then, our son a germinating thought. Greta Thunberg was ten years old, Obama was President, and Bin Laden dead after a decade of war. #MeToo was not yet a movement, though women’s outrage stewed. I was in my late 30s and my biological clock was like two sliding electric doors that had been steadily inching closed.

Maybe I was thinking about India as some sort of last hurrah before I started a family. Maybe I was craving air-quote “authentic” travel, venturing beyond monuments, museums, and espressos, like my friends in the solar-powered eco rock band, Solar Punch, who were heading back to Ind

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