IN TRANSIT

Sometimes I hate all this technology! Just as I am winding up work, and getting myself a cup of tea to sit down quietly and write, 

Pinggg! Message alert! Pongg! Facebook alert! Ghatlangg! Kitchen alert! Ting Tonggg doorbell  alert! 

Beep beep!  Best friend call alert! 

Sighhhhhhh..............

Not a moment goes by without being 'connected'!

Ok, so where was I? 

Yes, at an airport, sitting inside Security, waiting to board our flight back home. Smudged, dusty, floor to ceiling glass panels with row after row of bucket seats facing them. A weary young mother, with a million assorted bags, sits in the seat in front of mine and tries hard to contain her curious 3 year old's questions without much success. His piping, bird like voice wants to know why HIS plane hasn't come; why he cannot fly without the plane; why his orange truck cannot be banged against the glass panes; why  he can't have his Frooti right away; all this in one breath while his mother desperately looks up at the Sparrows swooping and gliding about, pretending to be Swallows. His voice reminds me of Madhav's voice at that age, and I quickly text him to tell him how much I miss him. That bit about technology, I like!

On the other side, by the Coffee Booth, an elderly Tourist, possibly European, hunches on the floor, while he painstakingly cellotapes his brand new Map - all the folds, taped ahead of time, to ensure that the same map will see him through his entire trip without falling to bits. He wears a 'tiki' and ugly green Crocs.  Covered in straps, across his chest, twice over, across his belly, across his shoulders, he is  evidently well-traveled, with several lessons learnt. 

Another airport, another time.  A young Nun from Mother Teresa's Diocese, the only person sitting in that row, is trying to doze,  rosary and thin prayer book clutched in hand . Her feet are in waterproof sandals and her plump face is not peaceful; she is waiting to go somewhere, and clearly not looking forward to it.  Her traveling companion, another young nun, is striding about energetically, chattering to people and seemingly quite excited about her trip. On my way to the Wash Room I am thoroughly amused to see her bend over her companion, the somnolent nun, and hear her say "hello, are you dead? Did you really die?"  Dozy nun is NOT amused however, swats away her hand,  and hisses at her "what are you doing, sit here quietly, no". 

I carry on to the Wash room pleasantly surprised to know that Nuns, apart from Maria, can make me laugh. 

Another spanking new Airport, all slippery floors and shining dividers, enormous spaces and letters from the Bengali alphabet strewn around its ceiling, faces us as we drive in. The Luggage trolleys all neatly lined up look like someone spent all night polishing them.  Bags are loaded, and the camera bag is tucked into the shelf at the top, dark hoodie thrown across it; the guitar is slung over the shoulder,  laptop & IPad are in place; with a quick check of the ticket and ID, he's ready to leave. 

Visitors are Banned from entering the Departure Lounge. 

A tight hug and kiss later,  he lopes off , looking back at us, saying bye. I do not cry but have a very difficult time dealing with the hollow my chest suddenly turns into.

We wait at the glass windows for as long as we can see that familiar, beloved creature, looking at us across the polished floors as he checks in, pays for his Overweight luggage (AS ALWAYS!!) goes into Security, when he waves, one last time and disappears into the crowd.
We drive home in silence, going over the last two months, occasionally smiling to ourselves, acknowledging the fact that with every trip home, he seems a little more grown up, a little more responsible and a little further away......

Back home I find an old notebook, with a piece written and dated August 1994, from my days in the Gardens. I wrote it the day before Madhav started School, his very first school, at the Binnaguri Army Base. 

As I read about his new school bag that he is so proud of, and the apprehensions his father and I had way back then, I realise that some things never change. Whether its to Nursery school for 3 hours a day or to College a 4 hour flight away, the wrench is always the same.

The foolishness lies in expecting it to get easier with time. It doesn't. 

Ma's Shoes

After ages I decided I owed myself a treat. I've been doing some extra work and I'd just been paid a nice tidy sum, not enough to save up but quite enough to indulge myself; a kind of reward, or if you like, just a pat on the back from me to me..... 
Having lunch with a friend on her birthday at a familiar, cozy restaurant, tucking in to delicious kebabs, while it poured outside, made for a wonderful afternoon; and since the rain had washed everything clean by the time we stepped out, we decided to go on a little jaunt for the rest of the afternoon. 

Shoes. Of course it had to be shoes! This was one weakness we had in common even  though she preferred gladiator style high heels whereas I swung between strappy sandals or low heeled pumps. In the middle of a sea of shoes I suddenly remembered accompanying Ma on one of her shoe buying sprees, maybe 30, no, 40 years ago! For the life of me I couldn't remember what shoes she was trying on but I do remember a wizened old Chinese lady in navy blue flowered pyjamas, yes pyjamas, calling for more and more shoes, and shoe boxes hurtling down from the ceiling! 

Did Ma wear Pumps or Box heeled Sandals? Or Stilettos? Why couldn't I remember? I tried transporting myself back to her walk in closet where she must have stored her footwear but all I could see were my dad's shoes, all polished to high gleam, neatly arranged on the sloping rungs at the bottom. 

When I was a little girl, I loved watching Ma get ready for a party. Much like most little girls the world over. She had a really quick routine though ~ quick dab of moisturiser, bright lipstick, spritz of perfume and she was ready. On occasion, a tiny touch of eye liner and a red bindi did the trick. I don't remember her going for a hair Spa or a Facial, though she did go and get her bouffant done for the really important bashes! Beautiful paisley silk sarees, or crisp Tussar ones in the cooler months were replaced by crisp cottons,  chiffons or Dhakais in summer ~ always beautiful, always elegant! But what the hell did she wear on her feet? 

I figured I would ask my sisters since this was really beginning to bother me. Maybe they would remember. Hang on, I was getting something.......navy blue...low heeled.....dammit, those were the Dr Scholls she wore in her older years. Nope, not what I was looking for......somehow I couldn't picture her teetering in stilettos....hmm, let the process of elimination begin......

Pumps or Mocassins? I think not, unless she was traveling; Floaters? Definitely not! Wedges? Doubt if they made Wedges back then, in India; Block heels? Hmm, maybe, not too sure; how about Platforms? Nah, not Ma; oh oh I remember a pair of Maroon Court Shoes....2 inch heels....yes, though they were called Cherry in those days.....and low heeled Mules....yes, soft soled Black ones and Beige ones - identical in every way; also a brown one with wide straps across the foot; oh my god, also a white one with a slightly higher heel with straps that buckled around the heel!!! I remembered them! 

So what the hell was I doing looking for Nude Pumps in high and low heels? Why wasn't I looking for shoes like Ma wore?? Ok, not the Block heels or the Wide strap ones, but what about the other ones? The Mules and stuff? 

Nah, I had looked at at least 40 pairs by then and none of them made my feet sing. I was going with the first pair I had tried on....a pair of Nude pumps with a bow - they were comfortable as well as pretty! And versatile too! 

Very pleased with my gift to myself I walked out - a tiny bit wistful, a tiny bit nostalgic about my Mom's shoes......but maybe it was just as well..... her shoes would have been too difficult to fill anyway......