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.