How can
one be so stupid?
I never traveled on a flight before I boarded one for the
USA. I used to ask everyone that did, what the experience was like. How it felt
to be travelling through the clouds, how it felt to look down at the planet,
tracts of lands, hills and mountains, forests and concrete. Most opined, it was
boring, more boring than it might seem or you might expect. You can’t move
much, can’t take a walk if your knees ache. Sitting in the same position for
long hours is anything but enjoyable, they said. Someone shared with me a more
terrible fact—fluctuating air pressure may rupture one’s eardrums. So, I took
unconfident steps onto the first aircraft of my life that took me to Doha, from
where I boarded another flight to Boston. I tried to appear confident until I
was asked to fasten the seat-belt. I looked around and tried to see how other people
did that but failed. I didn’t want to ask for my husband’s help—we were still
new to each other and I had been consciously trying to maintain a confident and
street-wise facade--qualities he later told me he never thought I possessed. My husband
caught me struggling with the seatbelt and waited for a few seconds before extending his help with a how-can-one-be-so-stupid expression.
I won’t
remove my marital ornaments
The flight left Kolkata after three in the morning. I was
seated in a window seat right next to one of the wings. To my utter
disappointment, I could see absolutely nothing outside, except a part of the
pitch-dark sky of the night. So, I started twiddling my thumbs until another
moment of embarrassment came along. A flight steward came to serve us food but
I was yet to set my table—I didn’t know how to do that. My husband saved me
from sheer embarrassment but I am sure he laughed secretly. I am sure the plump
man sitting next to him, who slept through most of the journey and briefly woke
up just to have dinner, laughed too. I felt shaky and cursed myself for not
checking the YouTube videos that showed how to do things on a flight. I am
laughing now while writing about the incident. I no longer bother to make any
efforts to show that I am not really as silly as I appear. For my husband now
knows me well, how clumsy I am. When you live with someone under one roof for a
year and love him intensely enough to comfortably fight with him like a younger
sibling, you no longer bother about how you look while you sleep, or on your bad-hair
days, how stupid you seem to be when you accidentally drop a fork or a spoon
while eating at a restaurant or when you fail to cover a forceful sneeze
timely. But it was different that time. I was just a few weeks old as his wife
and I had to look smart to him.
We reached Doha around 8 in the morning and I looked around
like a curious child. Everything starting from the water fountains to the
gigantic yellow teddy or the luxury car on display enthralled me like they
would a five-year-old. And of all things I wanted to have a piece of gum from
the duty-free stores, I no longer remember why. It was at the Doha airport that
they asked me to remove my marital ornaments at the time of security checking,
to which I said a prompt and clear ‘no’ without thinking twice. I was not well-aware
of the power of the officers that check passengers before boarding flights. I
was not aware that the ‘Hulk’ish lady officer who was checking me could easily
take me to a room for the sake of asking questions and stop me from boarding my
flight to Boston if I upset her even a bit or if she wished to. Ignorance is
bliss and I was ignorant. She looked at me, blinked. I looked back too,
blinking. And a couple of seconds later she said ok.
Mera
Kuchh Samaan—a few of my
belongings
My flight to Boston was more pleasant for a number of
reasons. Firstly, I had a window seat this time too, without absolutely nothing
obstructing the view through it. Secondly, there was nobody to occupy the third
seat, which meant husband and I could use the seats as a bed, taking turns, and
have a brief shuteye. Thirdly, there was a huge collection of old Bollywood
songs on the playlist of the flight, including my all-time favorite ‘Mera Kuchh Samaan’. And fourthly,
because I was very soon to reach my new home, in a country where I knew
absolutely nobody, except for the man who took an oath to love me and protect
me against everything through the rest of my life, a few weeks ago.
One particular phase of the journey left a lasting impression
on me—it was when the plane was flying over the Atlantic Ocean. I diligently watched
the progress of the tiny digital aircraft, moving along the dotted line that
joined the two continents—Europe and North America—across the ocean, on the
in-seat screen. I had a strange feeling while watching it—I felt as if it was
me, the tiny aircraft was actually me, moving away from my world, from Ma and
Baba and all the wonderful souls that gave me love and life, inch by inch to a
place from where I would return only occasionally, for a couple of weeks or so,
to be with them, to hold them in my arms, to be in the city that witnessed me
grow over the years, from a problem child, a skittish teen, to an angsty young
professional, the city that is aware of all my secret shenanigans, and my
experiments with life. I closed my eyes and felt thankful for the darkness
inside the plane. I started crying silently and eventually drifted off to sleep.
Welcome
home
I expected skyscrapers, I expected a Manhattanish view of the
city while the plane flew over it. But Boston disappointed me. I saw
cottage-like houses, I saw spires, acres of fields, lakes, and trees that
recently lost foliage. Boston from the sky looked pretty much like a Scottish
village or an English small town. It had absolutely no resemblance to what I
imagined it to be. And my imagination was largely inspired by the photos I saw
on TIME Lightbox of New York or Chicago taken from airplanes.
It was an afternoon in early December, partly sunny, chilly,
and extremely windy. One of the first things that welcomed me was a sign, right
after I stepped out of the airplane and entered the arrival area. The sign
welcomed me in countless different languages. And it didn’t take me even a
second to spot ‘swagatam’ glowing in
Bengali and Hindi against the illuminated background. It was the first of the
countless warm hugs I received from the city, especially on occasions when I
wanted nothing except going home. It hugged me, ran its fingers through my hair
like an affectionate elder every time homesickness struck, and told me, you’re
at home, I am home to you. I felt as if it opened its heart to me, reminded me
that I wasn’t away from home, showed me that it knew how to touch my heart, my
soul. And I fell in love with it in that very instant.
The immigration officer appeared very serious and unfriendly.
‘How do you pronounce your name? Sh-Shandreya?’ He closely
examined my passport.
‘No, Chandreyi’, I corrected him.
A corner of his lips raised a bit, as if he said ‘whatever’.
‘You guys got married recently?’
We nodded, smiled a bit, tried to look relaxed, which we were
not, more because of my hypertensed husband, who was terribly afraid of police
and immigration officers.
‘Have you started hating each other yet?’
He asked very seriously, looking up from the passport. Three
thick folds appeared
across his forehead.
Husband and I looked at each other, didn’t know how to react.
And then the officer laughed, ‘Just kidding guys, welcome home!’
