What I enjoy most about international flights is the minute just before landing. On flights from the United States to India, the final minute features daughters who trade tank tops for saris, apply sindoor (the vermilion mark of marriage) to the parting of their hair, and trace kajol around jetlagged eyes. Businesspeople shut laptops bloated with tasks, where all will be forgotten during jampacked weeks with family. Tourists make frenzied circles in guidebooks, unprepared for the colorful chaos awaiting them. As the plane makes its touchdown, the cabin fills with the smell of damp soil after the rain. Every summer, I breathe it in hungrily. “I’m here. I’m home.”