The silence within my walls is profound. In India, there is quiet punctuated by the sounds of activity: the vendors, the motorcycles, the cook coming in, the incessant phone. Here my silent cats sleep, and as there is a chill, my windows are shut. The noise I hear is the fridge, mildly roaring. I miss my family, the hundred daily things that makes middle-class life in India so livable, from the coffee served first thing to the hot water available through the geyser switch. (I wished I fared as well here, where warm water is now a rarity in my shower, which seems to have gone on vacation.) Yes, there were the power cuts, the unbelievable humidity of an August day in South Chennai, the stickiness from the heat one feels before sleeping, but daily life needs are taken care of. Suffice to say I did not have to clean or cook for myself for eighteen days. Here, I am faced with endless days of grilled cheese and pickle, and a hankering to window shop online. But all is never lost. There is a stack of books waiting to be read, and recipes to be followed. I brought back a trove of new clothes, so perhaps these days, I can get back to the rhythm of life in America as a single woman.