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• Izabel Lee, Grade 3, Bathurst Public School
• Short Story
• 2017

Excellence Award in the 'Spread The Word 2017' competition

This was it. I entered the Hobart airport, my emotions a mixture of fear and nerves. I thought this adventure would be filled with excitement, happiness and thrills, but I couldn’t feel any of those emotions. Not even slightly.
I lined up with my suitcase in hand and ticket in the other. My parents silently followed behind me. They were taking my journey back to India differently, but I knew one thing. They were both happy for me.
I reached the security gates and I knew it was time to say goodbye. I hugged my father for a few moments and hear him whisper, “I’m so proud, son. So very, very proud”.
My mother clutched me tightly against her chest, the way she did when I was young. I thought she wouldn’t let go. She remained silent.
I took a deep breath and walk through those gates. I don’t look back, I can’t. I knew that if I looked back to my parents I wouldn’t go any further.
Walking the stairs to the door of the plane felt like I was walking up a mountain. When I finally reached the top after what seemed like an eternity, I found my seat number and sat nervously. As the plane ascended into the air, I watched the world around me.
I awoke to a soft tap on the shoulder from the flight attendant. We were here. In India.
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I scampered out of the plane to get my luggage and walked towards the exit. My hands shook as I rolled my suitcase through the airport. I was about to walk the same streets I walked on every day of my childhood. I pushed the doors open and gasped. This looked nothing like my memories.
The streets crawled with cars, bikes and autorickshaws. I hailed a taxi and handed him an address on a scrawled up piece of paper. He drove while I stared out the window, trying to find anything I could recognise.
Then I saw it. The sign. I got out of the taxi and stood next to it, closing my eyes. I remembered.
I let my memories lead me as things started to become more familiar. This was my home. I could feel it. I broke into a slow jog, then a run, then a sprint, trying to push through the crowd.
I was home. It wasn’t as I remembered. This house was deserted, besides a small brown goat. My heart sank.
A small woman appeared, looking at me curiously. She started to speak.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Hindi,” I said.
“I speak English too, a little,” she replied.
I reached into my pocket, pulling out the only picture I had of me as a child. She studied it for a few moments, her brows furrowing.
“Come with me,” she said, finally. “I’m going to take you to your mother”.