Airport terminals seem to me places suspended in their own reality. The weary woman with her infant; the wonder-eyed kids with backpacks; the disgruntled, underslept consultant in formals; the family with no concept of personal space or volume control; the man, and it’s mostly a man, who thinks the airport is a hotel and the stewards his servants; the doe-eyed couple on their honeymoon, apparent from their body language; All alert at 3 AM, seemingly indifferent to being carried in space around a rotating and revolving planet in a big, metallic box held together by the laws of physics and the ingenuity of humans. The baristas and flight crew offering their smiles at the strangest hours; the immigration officers refusing to, looking beyond you as they speak to you; the security officers moody – at times helpful, other, short tempered; porters walking like they own the place, cutting through queues; the flight crew strutting in pairs or threes, never alone. 

Everytime I enter an airport terminal, two things happen. First, I am reminded of the movie The Terminal. Tom Hanks stranded on an airport terminal, temporarily a denizen of nowhere as his country undergoes a military coup, rendering his passport invalid. Catherine Zeta-Jones running around catching flights, always making time to pick up History books from the bookshop. “I have to go”, “I have to stay”, they remark to each other. In that space when we clear the immigration check but are yet to board the plane, we are all denizens of nowhere. One country says we have left and the other doesn’t know when we will arrive. We all belong to Krakhozia for a while. 

Second, I am reminded of the times I have traveled before. I will be standing in the queue for the check-in or in the boarding lounge or browsing the overpriced books in the bookstore, and my memory will retrieve something from millions of mental threads. Time curls and folds on itself. And like a body in jet lag, I become suspended in time.

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I am 26. The officer supervising the security check is instructing me what to put in the tray while he takes my bag and places it on the conveyor belt. I have but a few seconds to take off most of my things to make it past the frame without setting it off. Years of travel yet I can’t take the red beep as anything but a personal failure. I realize I have my wallet in my pocket. I turn around and offer a sheepish smile as he rolls his eyes, offended. I cross again and gather my things while a lady asks me to step aside for a ‘random’ test. I know what’s coming…

…I am 23. My friends and I are boarding a flight in Brussels. We are drying off, slightly wet from the rain that ambushed us. One of us is asked to step aside. We look in bafflement as a strip of paper, no bigger than a Post-It, is rubbed on his hands, clothes, and shoes, and put in a machine; seconds later he is asked to go. We’re confused. We look at the other people who were tested. How do I put this without using the R word? They are all blessed with melanin. The same thing happens to us in spurts through Europe. We stop thinking much of it…

…I am 19. I am returning from a vacation abroad when the Indian immigration officer asks me what I did. In life, not on vacation. I’m a student on holiday. “What subjects did you have last semester?” I struggle to recall three though I sat through ten exams. I make up names and he nods. I don’t know who is fooling who. His son is also doing engineering. I would be surprised at the coincidence except in India, engineers are a dime a dozen. My passport isn’t stamped so I smile and pretend it’s the most serendipitous thing I have heard… 

…I am 18. I am traveling alone on a plane for the first time. By habit, I walk fast and end up on the baggage belt. I notice Kirron Kher. I offer a smile and she acknowledges it. The bags haven’t arrived. I debate if I should bother her, it’s early morning. I request a picture. She rolls her eyes and huffs but in a playful manner, and says Yes. I ask someone to click it. It’s horrible. She’s half-turned and straining to smile. I am puffy-eyed and tired. I thank her and step aside. Seeing me, others start approaching her. Her bag hasn’t come. Mine has. She scolds the staff for the delay despite being a Premium customer. I leave quietly…

…I am 8. It’s my first time on a plane. I sit next to my grandmother who is uncomfortable during the take-off and landing. I am too excited for any discomfort to register. I look outside as masses of land and water come and go, houses tiny as the ridges on my finger, cars move like ants. I wonder about the people I’m passing over, what lives they must live. I nudge her to look outside. She starts dry heaving. I offer her a paper bag. She looks at me, baffled. “The air hostess said before the take-off that you can use this”. She smiles and takes it…

…I am 19. My uncle books a window seat for me, per usual. It’s a smaller plane. I’m heavier than I should be. It’s not good. The flight doesn’t have in-flight entertainment. I don’t have earphones. My book is boring. My neck is stiff. I can’t sleep. The person next to me is. I envy him. The flight is running late. I make notes: always carry earphones; carry two books; have an offline playlist prepared; take aisle seats for leg space. I stick to them in the future…

…I am 20. Through some miracle, I get to sit in Business Class. Fergie’s Glamorous plays in my head. I sit next to a woman who is with her family. They all have laptops and tablets. The kids take off their headphones and speak, only to order food. We are offered a menu. I have yet to taste wine in life and learn the bougie way of pronouncing the French syllables. The steward asks if he can bring me something. I order juice…

…I am 23. We are headed to Europe on an exchange semester. My friend, traveling abroad for the first time is, naturally, on the window. Like a wizened veteran, I tell him what will come and when. The steward offers us our meal. “Vegetarian”, my friend says. “Asian vegetarian” I correct him. I’ve saved him from eating some weird soya concoction. I watch ‘The Matrix’ and understand little. We end up missing our connecting flight…

…I am 12. Our flight to London is at 1 PM. We leave our home, in true Indian fashion, at 8 AM, Aloo Parathas in tow. It’s one of the worst rains Delhi has seen. We’re stuck at Dhaula Kuan for over 2 hours. My aunt, a ground staff member on the airline we are flying on, is trying to hold the fort. All our relatives have reached and can’t understand why we haven’t. We reach by 12:30. It’s useless. We book a flight for the next day. Our relatives decide if they should come again. “How can your family miss the flight?” My uncle’s colleagues laugh. He tells the cab driver he hired to come the next day…

…I am 25. We reach the airport way before we are meant to. There’s little to do. I have a tome of a novel to kill time. We sit away from the crowd, masks on. We discuss how fortunate we are to have had a family vacation after so long. None of us is looking forward to going back to life as it was. Within days of landing, all of us test positive for Covid…

…I am 23. I land home, arms full of luggage. I carry over 50kgs of weight and see that my Mom and grandparents have come to pick me up. My grandmother, chronically ill as she had been, has taken enough medicines to ensure she can stay out for some hours. She says I look weaker. I am thinner, not weaker. I don’t correct her. On the ride back, I sit in the front and reach my arm back to hold her hand. I notice it is thinner and weaker than before. My arm cramps but I hold on. I sleep a dreamless sleep on my bed…

…I am 23. I am on a makeshift bed made of a sofa and three wooden chairs in a closed Starbucks outlet in the Norway airport. My flight is in the morning and the terminal is shut down. I feel like Tom Hanks in The Terminal minus the whole familial quest and any hope of Catherine Zeta-Jones. I lie awake at 1 AM, counting down the hours to the flight in the morning, drifting in and out of consciousness. A girl next to me has copied my bed arrangement and gone off to sleep. I watch the huge clock on the terminal as it stays stuck at 1 AM. I am reminded of it being daylight savings that day. I am sleepless from 1 to 2 AM. Twice… 

…I am 23. My friend has woken me from a peaceful sleep in the Reykjavik terminal at 3 AM. A cold slice of Pizza Hut takeaway is nearby. We use the terminal WiFi to submit an assignment on our course on Negotiation tactics. I switch between minutes of frenetic activity and a shutdown of my brain as she types and edits on her phone. 40 percent of our grade relies on it. We can’t even care to scrape more than 40 minutes. She goes to sleep. I cannot anymore…

…I am 22. My Mom and Uncle are accompanying me to my campus for my Post Graduation degree. It will be my first time living alone. I notice similar groups of twos and threes on the flight – someone my age with a parent or relative. All the parents are beaming. All of us are inwardly nervous. I cannot imagine what lies ahead. We stay the night at a relative’s. Her driver takes us to campus the next day. I hold Mom’s hand all through the ride…

…I am 23. I am headed for an internship in Hyderabad. I land, and in the time it takes for my phone to reconfigure its network, it hits me that I am alone in a new city. I track my route on Google Maps as I reach the hotel. I lie awake like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation, reality and fear sweeping me over. I get up to iron my shirt for the next day. I am up before the alarm rings…

…I am 23. We are returning from the exchange semester. Our final leg is from Helsinki. We have a running gag of having a sip (or more) of alcohol in every country we enter. Who this gag is for, I don’t know. After three months of using our mother tongue as a conspiratorial plaything, we are now surrounded by people speaking our language. We sip a shot of whiskey each. A woman lounging on the recliner makes no effort to hide her judgment. I pray that she isn’t seated next to me. I buy a bottle of champagne for my upcoming convocation… 

…I am 24. I pack a single suitcase to take home. My course is done and the convocation is in three weeks. I leave most of my luggage behind. Nobody says goodbye properly, knowing we’re all coming back. At the airport, I see people wearing masks. I find it strange. Once I land, my mother hands me one too. Three days before my convocation, the Prime Minister announces a nationwide lockdown. My degree comes home via courier. I see my hostel room on a blurry video call as the campus people pack my luggage and send it over. The champagne stays unopened…

…I am 25. My friend is getting married. I step on a plane after almost two years. It’s a city I’m new to. I think I can reach the venue myself and realize upon stepping outside that is out of the question. He ensures beforehand that there is someone to pick me up. I am one of the last people to reach. I knock on the door and see everyone. We meet after 20 months. Nothing has changed…

…I am 26. I pick up my suitcase from the belt and somehow injure my wrist doing it. Within seconds, a bluish-red welt develops. I am reminded of my grandmother. She would show us how the tiniest of injuries left a blue mark on her fair skin. “I bruise easily”, she would say with a wistful smile. She died over a year ago. I trace my finger over my wrist and watch my vein throb. I think of her as I book my cab for home.