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From a young age, I had a deep-seated love for India, and it was as a result of my dad getting cassette movies from the local video store. I remember our family seating in the living room to watch the lengthy subtitled movies without playing forward the dances or songs. I moved from these videos to viewing un-subtitled series on paid cable TV, forming conversations in my head most times. So when I was required to escort my mom on a medical trip, it was a dream come true. A few days before the scheduled flight, I practiced the few Hindi words I had picked up over the years watching Tele-series and movies. I read about the culture, traditions, and customs (very important note when you grow up hearing stories about Hindu magic). Sadly, we missed the flight. My mom saw it as a sign to cancel the trip and forgo any planned treatment. We communicated this turn of events to our agent, Aadi. He encouraged us to try again and promised to pick us up at the airport. Despite feeling down, we re-booked tickets and flew out Nigeria within a week. As we made our final descent into New Delhi after spending several hours on air, I couldn’t contain myself. I suffered no jet lag as we left the terminal to meet Aadi that cold February morning. In a bid to show off my bi-lingual skill, I greeted in Hindi. He took our bags and drove to the guest house. Our unit comprised of a room, kitchen with spare utensils, en-suite bathroom located by the balcony and a spacious living room without furniture. At the sign of dawn, I set out to buy items needed to make our lodge feel homely. The street was buzzing with students in their uniforms heading to school, auto-rickshaw drivers trying to overtake bicycle riders heading to work, traders displaying their wares. I noticed a frail-looking man in his late thirties, arranging tobacco, sweet and sugar packets on a rope. His kiosk had steel milk cans, with tea cups lined on trays. He gave me a warm smile, revealing tobacco stained teeth. He greeted and then proceeded to know my reasons for visiting. I told him about the diagnosis. Since English wasn’t his first language, he struggled to ask why I was outside so early. I stated my plans and he pointed to areas where I would purchase all the items on my list before heading back to attend to a waiting customer. Taking his advice, I walked to the shops, partly conscious of the stares I got walking down the street. Maybe it was my dark skin or braided hair that had them entranced, I couldn’t tell. I was indifferent to the act as it posed no threat to my well-being. On my return, he made sure I got the products and sent his regards to my mum. On the next day he saw us (my mom and I) leaving the guest house, he ran out of the kiosk, limping to where we stood. He inquired about her health and went further to provide information on the transport systems. Though we barely saw him on certain days as our trip changed from medical to tourist in the blink of an eye, he never failed to be of assistance. I was elated to see the Great Indian Place, visit temples in a neighboring town, ate chicken biryani, roti, celebrated the famed Holi day (also known as festival of colors) and rode through the metro line. Before the trip came to an end, he called me into his kiosk for a chat. He said I reminded him of his first love who was of African descent. When he recounted why he couldn’t marry her due to cultural differences, tears welled up his eyes. He thanked me for being a friend to him and hoped to see me in the future. That was the last time we ever saw. I may never see him again nor know his real name, but I won't forget the chai wallah who stuck his head through the kiosk window to fondly ask ‘hey Dosti, how's mama?’.