My ankle wobbled, unsure of taking its first step into the plane. I’d tricked it into thinking this would be an easy journey, sure we just pack our stuff hop on a few trains, buses, planes. How hard could it be?
It’s weakness grumbled at me, not exactly taking it easy, are you? With my life packed into a suitcase, me and my half broken companion set out to fly to Bangladesh. The ticket was cheap and the air was hot. Biryani awaited.
Like everything else in my life at that point, my perfect plan lasted precisely 5 minutes. With the connecting flight cancelled, the few people I’d share it with were told to wait here FOR DAYS until the next flight was restored.
Flying alone was a test in itself but coupled with an ankle that behaved like a wet noodle was a topping on the insanity ramen our world was slurping. NO ONE knew what the hell they were doing.
In that airport, I felt suspended. Neither here nor there, somewhere between the life I was leaving and the one I was yet to invent.
“The next plane to Bangladesh is… uncertain” a staff member told me, in the same tone one might use to break the news of an escaped lion. “You can try the flight to Mumbai, but you’ll have to run.” Run! With these spaghetti legs! But off I went, hobbling heroically through the airport like a wounded wildebeest and miraculously boarding that flight in a fever of joy and fatigue.
God knows that airport is massive. The weirdest thing happened in Qatar, I bumped into a friend from a past life. I hadn’t left the house or seen anyone in years, let alone bump into anyone I KNEW. It was clear from the frosty interaction we were no longer friends, and after swapping numbers she proceeded to ignore my texts. People had become quite strange since lock down and I certainly didn’t live up to her new standards of living with the Royal hoi polloi.
I sat in the plane on the way to Mumbai worried I had no ticket or a place to stay. But that was a problem for future me. I settled into a short flight and decided I’d work out Kolkata when I landed.
Ah… India!
The world’s busiest airport was extremely… empty.
There were just 10 people passing through immigration from that flight including myself. I remember the curve of the building, the long carpet lined, trudgerous walk. The air thick and musty like nothing else I’ve breathed.
I’d never been to this side of the world before, only dreamed about it. And the decision to go was to liberate my inner yearnings of a life more than what i had been doing for 15 years in an office. I was meant to draw, and the ache of never putting pencil to paper called for an exquisite shift.
Thanking the heavens for internet bookings, I arrived in Kolkata with a dead battery. But myself, more alive than ever, was ready to be an artist again.