“Do you want a refill, sir?”, the air hostess asks me. She is probably in her thirties. Her hair is neatly tied in a bun covered with a netted thing with the flight’s logo on it. There is not a single hair that is misbehaving. Quite a sight. I wonder what she would look like with her hair flowing in the wind. She must look like freedom. I have never combed in my entire life. I walk out of the shower, run my fingers in my hair a couple of times and I am ready to meet the president. I have been doing this since I have had hair. I must look like ‘too much’ freedom. I have tried a couple of hair products but they all are bad. If you meet me at a party at 2 am, I am that guy who is passionately talking about how all hair products are bad. I have researched this. Trust me. To beat me in this argument, you either have to be as intelligent as Stephen Fry or as beautiful as Hugh Grant. Against both of them, I’d concede out of respect.
“Yes, I do want a refill”, I tell her. She comes back with her cart and fills my glass again. I don’t even know what I am drinking. Earlier today, I had promised myself to live a healthy lifestyle. But a lot has changed in the last eight hours. I am now flying to Heathrow, London. It’s that super big plane with ten seats in a row. Since I booked the tickets this afternoon, I have been allocated a seat in the second last row. Luckily, it’s the window side. It doesn't matter though. In fact, I never even see outside the window, but I still end up booking the window side seats. I don't know why. I think it's the what-ifs that I am scared of. What if one day I become a man who craves a beautiful view and would want to stare at the clouds the entire journey? That day is not here yet thankfully and until that day, I plan to use the window as a head resting board. "Anything else?", she asks me again. "No, that would be it", I reply with a smile. I mean I tried to smile, I don't know if the smile actually came on my face or not. That's why I prefer writing. While writing you can just be like "he said smilingly". While living, you actually have to put that damn effort to smile. Sometimes I wish living was as easy as writing. If not easy, at least similar. With life, it's all a surprise. I hate surprises.
Sometimes, don't you feel like you have had enough of it? Like you start despising every atom in this universe. Even though you know that it's nobody's fault. Does it ever happen to you? You don't even have the energy to argue. Or feel pain. You just accept. Of course, I will fall down the stairs and break my back. Of course, I will feel breathless after walking a couple of steps. Of course, I will miss my flight. Of course. You just move on to the next thing. Because you are so done with it. All of it. I felt like that today. I had a meeting in Delhi this morning. All went well. In meetings, everything always goes well. After the meeting, I went straight back to the airport, to catch my flight to Bengaluru. A few years ago, whenever I traveled to Delhi, I'd go to my go-to food places with a bunch of friends. Now I just go back to the airport. I don't feel like going to these roadside restaurants anymore. The food isn't the same, I keep telling my friends, when they try to make plans. It's been a few months now since I have talked to them. We don't make plans anymore. I don't know if it's the food at these restaurants, but something has surely changed.
At the airport lounge, I see a woman in her 30s sitting with her son. He is around eight or nine years old. They are sitting next to me. I can see that the mother is anxiously looking outside the lounge. It feels like she is waiting for someone. The son is unusually quiet for his age. They have a lot of luggage. Like a lot. "Don't go anywhere, I will go and look for your dad", the woman tells her son. She storms off. I observe the son. He finishes his juice, wipes his face, wears his specs, and gets off the chair. The manner in which he did all of these actions, it felt like he is actually a mature 30-year-old. He had an aura of a person who knew more about life than I did. He picked one of the smaller bags from that luggage mountain and started leaving. As he was walking towards the exit of the lounge, I stopped him. "Where are you going?", I asked. "Heathrow, London", he said, in a deep voice. It felt like that wasn't his actual voice at all. That shouldn't be. "But… your parents?", I inquired. He smiled and moved on. I didn't stop him. I wanted to but I didn't. I saw him going into the crowd and disappearing. I sat there for half an hour. His parents never came back.
"Sir, would you like to have some snacks?", the air hostess asks me. "Nothing, just refill this please", I tell her. "And", I add, "Is there a kid traveling in this plane? Like a 9-year-old kid, with specs on?". "Sorry sir, I can't reveal that information to you", the air hostess replies and goes back to bring her cart. It must be night outside, as the plane is unusually quiet. I must have dozed off. I get up to go to the washroom. Both seats next to me are empty. They must have found better seats, I tell myself. Actually was there anyone sitting next to me? I don't even remember. Wow, what did she give me to drink?! Anyway, I get out of my row. As I am walking, I realize that all the economy seats on this plane are empty. That's strange. I get a little scared. I run towards the business class, and that is empty as well. The whole plane is empty. I go towards my seat to find the air hostess. Just then I hear a voice, "This is your captain speaking. We might hit a turbulence ahead. Please buckle up". It's the same voice. It's the kid's voice. I run towards the cockpit. The turbulence is actually there. It's a big one. I keep falling on different seats, but I don't stop. I run as fast as I can. The air hostess calls me from behind, "Sir, please sit". I don't turn back. There is no air hostess, I tell myself. I am now running straight towards the cockpit door. I try to open the door, but the door seems to have jammed. I kick it, punch it, push it, but nothing seems to be working. The turbulence is at its worst. The kid's bag is flying all over the place. Just then, in the business class, I spot someone looking at me. It's a 60-year-old man with that kid's specs. "Try the other door", he says. I look at the other door. It's the "Exit". I hesitate. "Don't worry, you will be fine", the old man says. I open the exit and jump. I am now in mid-air. I pinch myself to check if it's a dream. It's not. I can feel the pinch. I can feel all the feelings. For a brief second, I experience joy. I let go of my luggage. I am now flying. But I am not. I am falling. The ground seems to get closer and closer with every passing second. I close my eyes. WHAM.
I have fallen right outside the Delhi airport. I am not hurt. I single-check, double-check and triple-check all my bones. I am actually not hurt. How is this possible? I enter the airport, go through the security check and start walking towards the airport lounge. The kid with the specs passes by. Of course, he passes by. I am not shocked anymore. For some reason, I am feeling better. I go towards the same spot at the lounge where I was sitting before. The seat feels warm. As if someone had just gotten up. I sit there and watch the kid disappear into the crowd. Is observing the same thing from a different perspective counted as Deja Vu? My flight to Bangalore is in one hour. Should I go to London with him? Just then, a friend messages me that he got to know I was in Delhi and if I want to catch up for a plate of chhole bhatoore. I reply yes. I leave the airport and get into the cab. For some reason, Bach is playing in the cab. My clothes are disheveled. My hair is a mess. At one of the signals, I spot a kid selling combs. I buy one. The old man had said, "don't worry, you would be fine". Maybe, I would be. I book the next morning’s flight to Bangalore. Window side.
You create an impeccable impact with your writing.write a book someday man! So I can read it while enjoying my snaks at lounge!!!!!!
This is soooo good. I love everything you write.