Planes and airports
The first time I got on a plane was to come to the U.S. That was also the first time I got on an escalator, a steep one, with a bulky carry on bag (with a tendency to tip over), in the recesses of which I lost my boarding pass and very nearly did not make it on to the plane. Below is a picture from that day, August 5th, 1987. I am wearing one of my five new outfits, a pickle green kameez with yellow piping. It was a new beginning for me, after years of drifting and hitting emotional bottom, so I was happy to leave. My dad, of course, knew I was never coming back (at least to stay). You can see it in his face.
Thirty five years and hundreds of hours on planes, in airports.
Years ago, we had many options to travel from Detroit to Kolkata with just one stop - British Airways, KLM, Royal Jordanian, Lufthansa. Now both airports have lost many airlines and our travel time these days is never less than 30 hours. Once, when KLM was our airline of choice, we put all our heavy luggage in an airport locker and stopped off for a couple of days in Amsterdam to visit my friend Jayani and her husband Thomas. We spent an entire rainy day walking around the city popping in and out of museums and coffee shops, crisscrossing the waterways (Venice is not the only European city with canals) - getting wet in the rain and then going indoors to warm up and dry off. Coming from the US, where history is never more than 200 years old, all the old buildings looked like they might be movie sets with nothing behind the facades. (I felt the same way in Greece too - the only other European country I've visited - as if the place had an additional dimension, as if you could experience space-time). That was the first and only time I ate in an Indonesian restaurant. (The food is similar to Thai, a heady mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar to an Indian palate.) That was also the only time I visited a red light area, where scantily clad people actually stood in windows illuminated by red lights and groups of tourists, like us, were wandering around as if it was a museum ....or a zoo.
We've been through Frankfurt many times too. That was the airport in which, in 2009, I told Rahul that Dilip kaku was gone. I have no memory of that telling, just of the feeling that I had to tell him before we got home and he was faced with the reality. The way Rahul talks about it, I think I just blurted it out and didn't take care to shield him from the shock. Rahul was very close to our friend Dilip. He would tease Rahul, make him ham sandwiches and spaghetti with meatballs, copy movies for him - a favourite one was "Waterhorse". He took Rahul bike riding and introduced him to Gandhi fandom. Dilip kept a huge portrait of Gandhi in his living room and both of them watched Attenborough's Gandhi many times. (We were watching the movie again recently and I asked Rahul what drew him to the movie, expecting an answer about Gandhi's nonviolence or about another character in the movie. Rahul said he liked the movie because it reminded him of the experience of watching it with Dilip kaku.) We had met Dilip the day before we left for India - he was standing in our driveway, a perfectly healthy-seeming person, wishing us a good trip. Who knew his cancer, although in remission, had weakened his immune system so much that he could not withstand a bout of that year's virulent epidemic flu.
Unlike my husband, I never talk to seatmates on a flight. I just smile at them nicely and bury my head in a book. But once Rahul and I traveled with such a sweet Saudi boy, I had to talk to him in the end. He was a plump highschooler, sitting in the aisle seat next to Rahul, while I sat by the window. Every time the flight attendant brought my food or a cup of tea, he would take it from her and hold it for me. He helped Rahul adjust his seat and set up his entertainment system. He acted as if it was his responsibility to make sure we had a comfortable trip. I found out that he was going to the U.S. for a two month intensive English course and had plans to work in his family business. Another time, there was an elderly Iranian couple next to me on a domestic flight within the U.S. They were as quiet as I was for most of the flight. Towards the end, the lady tentatively asked me whether I was from India. They were so excited when I said yes, "India is such a beautiful country where all religions live together peacefully!" That just made me so sad. They had left Iran soon after the revolution because of religious extremism. I had to tell them that India is headed that way too....it is no longer the country of "unity in diversity" that we used to learn about in school.
Last year I had the rare experience of traveling business class (due to a pandemic related sudden drop in fares) and I just couldn't belive that you can lie down stretched all..the..way! It's not that the seat reclines way back or that you have all the leg room you want - you can actually lie down fully, just like in a bed. Of course I enjoyed that experience a lot (so much that Mitali and I wrapped ourselves in our blankets and talked and talked until a passenger behind us complained that our chatter was distracting her) - however I still feel indignant at the thought. Some people get to lie down all the way while others, in economy, are squeezed like sardines in spaces that get smaller and smaller every year (I swear, thirty years ago there was enough room in the economy aisles for a person to pass by a food cart on their way to the bathroom.)
Being scolded by the flight attendant for talking too much and too loudly isn't the only experience reminiscent of school. There's the lining up in front of stern faced immigration officials, like waiting to take a test. You know you are prepared, you ate a healthy breakfast, your pencils are sharpened, but what if something goes wrong! (How many of us still have those test taking nightmares - you studied for the wrong subject, or you can never find the exam room, or a big wave comes and washes away everything you wrote). Most immigration officers, however grim looking, are actually quite nice, even the very first one I faced at JFK in 1987, the one who scared me with with his unintelligible (to me) NY accent. I had been so confident that I at least knew the language of this new country. Then there was the one in Chicago that asked me whether I had anything to declare. I had a few packets of snacks and spices and I knew there was a section on food on the declaration form. But I said no. "Come on", he said teasingly, "you are coming from India, no sweets, no pickles?" "I have some snacks", I admitted. Then his voice became simultaneuously gentle and disappointed sounding (like a nice teacher scolding a student), "Dry and prepared foods are allowed. Next time just write them on the form, okay?" I've been very obedient ever since, dutifully listing my Bancharam sandesh and Sunrise mustard powder. The nicest ones, though, are the ones that stamp your passport, hand it back to you with a flourish and smiling broadly, say "Welcome home!" Hearing that is a comfort but also a challenge...have I, an immigrant for 35 years, really made this country my home yet? Have I not been totally wrapped up in me, my family, my Indian friends and thought of my fellow citizens outside this circle as "them" and not "us"? Have I not taken from both places, the one I left and the one I emigrated to, and given nothing in return to either of them in terms of belonging and feeling responsible for? How rooted are we, anywhere? Probably only as much as we choose to be.
Years ago, we had many options to travel from Detroit to Kolkata with just one stop - British Airways, KLM, Royal Jordanian, Lufthansa. Now both airports have lost many airlines and our travel time these days is never less than 30 hours. Once, when KLM was our airline of choice, we put all our heavy luggage in an airport locker and stopped off for a couple of days in Amsterdam to visit my friend Jayani and her husband Thomas. We spent an entire rainy day walking around the city popping in and out of museums and coffee shops, crisscrossing the waterways (Venice is not the only European city with canals) - getting wet in the rain and then going indoors to warm up and dry off. Coming from the US, where history is never more than 200 years old, all the old buildings looked like they might be movie sets with nothing behind the facades. (I felt the same way in Greece too - the only other European country I've visited - as if the place had an additional dimension, as if you could experience space-time). That was the first and only time I ate in an Indonesian restaurant. (The food is similar to Thai, a heady mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar to an Indian palate.) That was also the only time I visited a red light area, where scantily clad people actually stood in windows illuminated by red lights and groups of tourists, like us, were wandering around as if it was a museum ....or a zoo.
We've been through Frankfurt many times too. That was the airport in which, in 2009, I told Rahul that Dilip kaku was gone. I have no memory of that telling, just of the feeling that I had to tell him before we got home and he was faced with the reality. The way Rahul talks about it, I think I just blurted it out and didn't take care to shield him from the shock. Rahul was very close to our friend Dilip. He would tease Rahul, make him ham sandwiches and spaghetti with meatballs, copy movies for him - a favourite one was "Waterhorse". He took Rahul bike riding and introduced him to Gandhi fandom. Dilip kept a huge portrait of Gandhi in his living room and both of them watched Attenborough's Gandhi many times. (We were watching the movie again recently and I asked Rahul what drew him to the movie, expecting an answer about Gandhi's nonviolence or about another character in the movie. Rahul said he liked the movie because it reminded him of the experience of watching it with Dilip kaku.) We had met Dilip the day before we left for India - he was standing in our driveway, a perfectly healthy-seeming person, wishing us a good trip. Who knew his cancer, although in remission, had weakened his immune system so much that he could not withstand a bout of that year's virulent epidemic flu.
Unlike my husband, I never talk to seatmates on a flight. I just smile at them nicely and bury my head in a book. But once Rahul and I traveled with such a sweet Saudi boy, I had to talk to him in the end. He was a plump highschooler, sitting in the aisle seat next to Rahul, while I sat by the window. Every time the flight attendant brought my food or a cup of tea, he would take it from her and hold it for me. He helped Rahul adjust his seat and set up his entertainment system. He acted as if it was his responsibility to make sure we had a comfortable trip. I found out that he was going to the U.S. for a two month intensive English course and had plans to work in his family business. Another time, there was an elderly Iranian couple next to me on a domestic flight within the U.S. They were as quiet as I was for most of the flight. Towards the end, the lady tentatively asked me whether I was from India. They were so excited when I said yes, "India is such a beautiful country where all religions live together peacefully!" That just made me so sad. They had left Iran soon after the revolution because of religious extremism. I had to tell them that India is headed that way too....it is no longer the country of "unity in diversity" that we used to learn about in school.
Last year I had the rare experience of traveling business class (due to a pandemic related sudden drop in fares) and I just couldn't belive that you can lie down stretched all..the..way! It's not that the seat reclines way back or that you have all the leg room you want - you can actually lie down fully, just like in a bed. Of course I enjoyed that experience a lot (so much that Mitali and I wrapped ourselves in our blankets and talked and talked until a passenger behind us complained that our chatter was distracting her) - however I still feel indignant at the thought. Some people get to lie down all the way while others, in economy, are squeezed like sardines in spaces that get smaller and smaller every year (I swear, thirty years ago there was enough room in the economy aisles for a person to pass by a food cart on their way to the bathroom.)
Being scolded by the flight attendant for talking too much and too loudly isn't the only experience reminiscent of school. There's the lining up in front of stern faced immigration officials, like waiting to take a test. You know you are prepared, you ate a healthy breakfast, your pencils are sharpened, but what if something goes wrong! (How many of us still have those test taking nightmares - you studied for the wrong subject, or you can never find the exam room, or a big wave comes and washes away everything you wrote). Most immigration officers, however grim looking, are actually quite nice, even the very first one I faced at JFK in 1987, the one who scared me with with his unintelligible (to me) NY accent. I had been so confident that I at least knew the language of this new country. Then there was the one in Chicago that asked me whether I had anything to declare. I had a few packets of snacks and spices and I knew there was a section on food on the declaration form. But I said no. "Come on", he said teasingly, "you are coming from India, no sweets, no pickles?" "I have some snacks", I admitted. Then his voice became simultaneuously gentle and disappointed sounding (like a nice teacher scolding a student), "Dry and prepared foods are allowed. Next time just write them on the form, okay?" I've been very obedient ever since, dutifully listing my Bancharam sandesh and Sunrise mustard powder. The nicest ones, though, are the ones that stamp your passport, hand it back to you with a flourish and smiling broadly, say "Welcome home!" Hearing that is a comfort but also a challenge...have I, an immigrant for 35 years, really made this country my home yet? Have I not been totally wrapped up in me, my family, my Indian friends and thought of my fellow citizens outside this circle as "them" and not "us"? Have I not taken from both places, the one I left and the one I emigrated to, and given nothing in return to either of them in terms of belonging and feeling responsible for? How rooted are we, anywhere? Probably only as much as we choose to be.
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