That was a raw December night in Delhi. I was driving towards the airport and had just fought for the seventeenth time with my wife for the day. Nagging for every little thing she argued why the hotel staff calls me every second midnight. And to charge it all, the visitor kept on calling to make sure if I had reached the terminal.
“Ji, sir ‘am at the parking. Shall I see you at the Arrivals?”
“haan bhaiya, Gate 17.”
Grabbing the printout that the reception gave me, I snuggled into the old jacket. Sighing, I remembered how that brown wool brought me closer to my many occasions of a divorce. She’d started with it and went on to stay at her mother’s for months, last winter.
“Damn,” I spat the masala.
“Hello? Bhaiya you haven’t reached the gate?”
“Sir, am almost there.”
“Achha, you have the name plate? There are 3 gates, you stand at number 4. I’ll be there looking at 5 and 6. ”
“Ji sir.”
I dragged my feet and stood listlessly, leaning at the railing.
“Ajay, again? What number?”
“haan, 871, you?” I enquired of Ramdas.
Smart in his Radisson uniform, he started his usual cant, “British 772., saala it was showing delayed sometime back, but now it isn’t even displaying the name.”
“Mine would land at half past 12. Madmen! At twelve only they’ve called me. They’ll take an hour to come out, even if they land in time yaar.”
We kicked off with our regular conversation openings, and my exasperation sublimed away.
“There she is! Whore, last Saturday she walked out with a Jet’s pilot.”
“Hasn’t she grown fat?”
“Forget it Raamdas.”
“Achha, look there. Look how baffled she looks, silly woman.”
“Don’t say that. She comes from a village. Even our wives and sisters would be as puzzled as she. Though, my wife would rather create a scene here for the authorities.”
I noticed the woman. Dressed in what she would call her best suit, an electric blue with large silver motifs. She called for someone and my eyes followed hers. A lad of seventeen, probably, with a face yet not to be shaved, stood a little vexed glancing over the flight schedules. But the glint in his eyes matched the woman’s, rather her silver motifs’. I looked ahead to realize a big crowd of Sardars and the two lanky men behind, with dhols slung across them.
“Must be here to receive their damaad”
“Can be here for their son from the UK too… don’t you remember Duggal saab?” I retorted.
The airport aura was different today. A bee hummed near the bin. I discovered people around me; people who stood there… as I stood there every second night, waiting. Their number was plenty. Half of them just hung off the railing. My brothers, I marked.
There was some noise at the other side, and as magnetising such noises are, most of the heads turned towards the gate. A gentleman, I’d say that for his wear, not too sure for his noise with the security chap, walked out of the maze of men and women. A lady draped wonderfully in a pink sari complemented his big brand suit and the violet silk tie.
“She’s old”, nudged Ramdas. Observing my observance of her, “must be a mother of…”
“She is! And I am a father of three.”
The woman in the blue suit was too loud and frantic by now. The boy with him seemed equally hapless. I yawned turning towards the gate numbered 4, they were a habitual sight. My flight was still slated ‘landed’.
“They’ll take an hour more”
“Oh! It’s routine.” My mate responded, as programmed.
“There is too much happening around us. But we never miss the happening one around us.” I chuckled.
“kidhar?”
Fancy white women of vision often amble out, and had often been our duties as well. But a little anxious one next to us in the reception wasn’t a daily sight. By the time he spotted the beauty with cascading gold locks, she ran off from gate.
“She’s running!”
“Oh! Yes. She is…”
And she almost tripped and slipped en route, slapping her palm against the pillar, hurdling over a bag or two, darting towards the other opening, she stumbled.
“Oh crap!” cried he.
Before one could realize she leaped and flung on to a blonde lad. Flung? They were one in that tight hug, as children’s blocks fix into each other. Now that was a scene the terminal was waiting for, its monotone broke, all heads turned a degree of ninety and their sights remained glued there. Ramdas whistled.
I smiled away, as the decibel rose around and Ramdas got on to his poetic rendition and addition of the spectacle just before us. Within minutes all were back to their chores – chatting, laughing, munching, waiting, swearing, wondering and panicking. The woman in her best blue bib, panicked now, and the boy did the same behind her. He must have been much lesser than his late teens as I estimated. I wanted to offer help, but withheld. This was a regular and she’d find her way out soon. No flights had crashed after all! Instead a new set of people walked out of the Arrivals. We looked for ours in vain. A young handsome man walked out with a sparkling smile. My eyes weren’t even fixed on him yet, when he strode past us and hugged the raucous gentleman.
“I told you she’s a mother, but didn’t realise of such a man!”
I laughed out heartily at my friend’s disappointment. He is on a look out for alliance prospects, seeking a bollywood one at the airport, but this surely put him down. The boy hugged his mother.
“Big business class people. How they betray their age?”
My giggles translated into soft smiles… Their faces were so calm, so happy. The set of thirty two were gone, but the left over managed the grin somehow. Each fold on the face shone cheerfully. Wrinkles could be beautiful. His wife was the same behind him, just on a wheelchair. Was it the relief of coming back in time? Was it to do with the songs of the soil? It indeed was. Or simply, it might be a relief of having someone who cared, probably kids back in the country. Looking for who was going to receive them. I thought of my mother, old and walked with a stick. I barely spoke to her now, sparing the routine food and sleep enquiry. I heaved a sigh; a heavy sigh. My eyes dampened. Now there were no tales, there was no laughter. There were no more arguments, and no more admonishes. She must have been sleeping in her cot in the two room house where I live. But I missed her. I controlled myself and the lovely young pair was received by an equally young man. He appeared to be a brother of the old man. They celebrated.
I wiped my cheek. Thankfully Ramdas was busy with one of his numerous prospects over the phone. He gestured two minutes to me. I said take ten, and laughed him off. The village woman in her bright blue garb was distressed by now. I simply went ahead. She did sound worse than my wife. Probably Suman had got tuned to the city beats. But this lady cried of losing her husband. By the end of the episode I knew they came from Bhatinda, the young son was sixteen and studied in a public school, her husband worked in Oman and landed an hour ago. She had a new mobile number and a worn out battery, and a silly cellular call from my device saved her the hysteria. Plus, her silly husband had walked down back to the departures.
“Punjab tourist bus de kol pahuchriyaan”, she handed the phone back to me, her son stretching his smile back. Yes he was close to seventeen, I smiled back.
“shukriya virji”
“Pagli! I spotted her in the beginning only. Didn’t I?”
“It’s okay, the city buzz does scare you. Suman wasn’t better when I moved here.”
“That’s the reason am looking for one here.” he tried hitting a witty one, but my smirk left him defeated. This coupled to the disgusting end he had that day. A stout middle aged woman in a red trouser towing a trailing bag walked out. With an odd grimace she signalled him from a distance of five yards. He shook a little and nervously scuttled away to grab the heavy suitcase.
“See you tomorrow,” I shouted.
The gang of Sardars with the two man band had received neither a son nor a son-in law. A daughter is what the men were proud of. The young zealous white couple had kissed and left, the handsome boy went home with the rich dad, the forever young couple made me heavy and the silly bright blue Bhatinda woman gave me a titter. I wasn’t tired but I called up my man.
“Sir, how long?”
“Arrey bhaiya, you bring the car, I’ve received them. Il bring them to the parking.”
Funny man, I gulped down.
My watch showed half past two, when I dropped them at the De Royal. I was tired, now. Walking back I assessed the fall out I had with my wife earlier in the night. I knocked and she opened the door without much delay. It was dimly lit- just the dull night bulb dangling in a corner. That cast a shadow on her profile fusing with dark open hair. Her face was tired, but a faint, satisfied smile painted her well. I had just hugged her.
