November 2022: on my return journey from Satkhol via Delhi

T1 New Delhi / Gurgaon is rather discreet: all new and modern. Like a work of cold art.

T 3 is buzzing with people and life, and probably one of the best airports globally. It’s really great to hang out and wait in.

T2 is the real deal. A véritable melting-pot of India in an enclosed space. It’s not cool. It’s old and under refurbishment, more like an unruly mall or school canteen. There are no rules.

People everywhere from all corners of the country seem as miserable as me and look for ways to escape infinite boredom and horrible fast food. It’s horribly beautiful and I spend hours people watching, fascinated by the sheer diversity traveling to and fro.

Elegant hajis mill around in circles, clutching bags pasted with their passport photo and address in case they get lost ( with their bags). The labels have obscure names I have, in my ignorance, never come across, and pin codes that seem to be part of the postal code, that I again, ignorant, have never heard of. Now I have.

Each community is garbed in their own unique fashion of flowing robes, perhaps a waistcoat, a veil, an embroidered skull cap. The men all port elegant long, wispy beards. The women are in floral burkhas and unveiled.

Newly Weds- what gives them away but her red and white chudas or is it their look of post honeymoon resignation? Shaadi ke baad honeymoon, ab chal, ghar chalte hain. Some even make eye contact whilst talking, and even laugh. With some relief, they look forward to release from their enforced captivity on an exotic beach and find their new normal. If only they knew there is no escape.

There are the Not Just Marrieds but also Smug Marrieds, where Husband wears an Esbeda man purse and Wife is all Indian Barbie in hot pink denim jacket paired with skin tight blue jeans, all panty lines on display, like cake tiers, ending with glittering pink heeled sneakers. My eyes hurt. Hubby darling looks the proud mard banging Barbie who bounces a very long poker straight black pony and takes selfies constantly. His gaze never wavers from the panty lines. Lucky them.

The Vamp never ceases ro raise my eyebrows till they disappear into my hair. She wears a very itsy- bitsy teeny- weeny cropped muslin ruffle top, treating us all to an eye-popping amount of plush cleavage and wobbling belly poured into tight jeans, with long coarse black hair coyly flipped. Every man runs to help her when she drops her bag of clutches ( she has bought a whole bag filled with little bags). I am overcome with an urge to hold her hands to my bosom and ask ,”why why ??”

I spend hours sitting next to a lovely lady from Chennai, obviously a techie. She simply dressed in black and watches my bags as I aimlessly wander among screaming children, bored mothers and student groups from Yeracud in the crowded, claustrophobic waiting lounge.

T2 is really a hellhole. I’m beginning to think it’s better not to fly out from there at all.

Almost everyone is sitting diligently on a laptop watching Netflix or glued to WhatsApp on their handsets. Only the very young and their harried mothers are in the Present world.

Techies swoosh around in jerkins and backpacks refusing give up their seat in that ghastly red inter-terminal transit bus for old ladies with snow white hair. Thry are always on a call and always busy. And look past everything under their nose. Their cellphone provider seems to be too notch as they have the best signal inflight or on ground while my poor phone struggles every time, much to my aggravation.

Don’t miss Amamma herself, in a bright cotton kurta, clutching her tattered aadhar card for dear life with her boarding pass, a plastic bag of belongings all she carries. Don’t be fooled, she s sharp and speaks English even if she is frail and you manage to grip her arm with iron and stop her from tripping and falling at your feet.
For a moment there, you think of your own grandma, especially when she is so touched you saved her, but then she continues to gingerly rub her arm where the vise wrapped tightly around before yanking her upwards hard. Still, she must have stories to tell and you help her get to her boarding gate.

Have we even mentioned the Great Indian Phone Rebel ? The one who plays loud Hindi movies inflight and in the lounge? While Amitabh Bachchan s dulcet tones are bearable, a full bihari drama can hurt your ears, still popping from this morning’s altitude of 6700 feet.

There are old couples holding hands, in funny tailored shorts and mehendi hair. There are proud sardars impeccably turned out, tall and dashing in their suits and cardigans.

A portly young lady dressed in three prints of grogeorus hand block printed blue rushes to her gate, so anokhi as only Indian fashion can be, her palazzos swishing around her payaled ankles. Pretty!!

Little children are dressed for the cold in cute snow suits and run amock like the Teletubbies. Hamleys is a magnet for them. Pester power is right here!

My heart breaks for the absolutely lovely young man from Lucknow who has no idea about multiple air terminals and has missed his connecting flight. He is the only man who offers Amamma his seat, standing the whole sweaty bus ride between the Ts. He is annoyed with himself and compares his trials to missing trains on different platforms. If the aam educated aadmi can’t navigate these might bastions of international modernism we are failing our own citizens.

Each boarding gate holds a tiny world at its steps. A microcosm of life in India.

You hear kashmiri, and Hindi and Tamil and Telugu in equal measure with oodles of Marathi thrown in.

King of all this is the charging point-hogwala Uncle. Here he is in his glory, a creature dressed in grey: grey shirt, grey coat, light blue jeans with a big belt buckle taking centrestage. He pairs this ensemble with light tan, pointy leather shoes, scuffed and dusty. His hair is greasy, like Snape s, centre-parted and untidy. There are two inches shaved all around the border of his head as the longish locks fall untidily over white scalp. He has evening shadow and looks travel worn but that doesn’t stop him being an arse. He is not quite a spring chicken and not middle aged. He is a patriach as évident from the argument that ensure between us in Hindi where he absolutely refuses to budge and let me charge my cellphone just because madam not sir is ticking him off. He has been occupying the seat next to the plug point for hours now and I have nowhere else to plug my phone that is dying on me. He actually says he can sit all day and hog the plug point as there are no rules. Never mind this is a free service for everyone. Logic demands you charge your phone and vacate the point. No,no, it’s apna ghar ka. We must sit and play games and watch videos until a lissome young lady comes and asks if she can charge her phone. Then we offer her both a seat and the plug point in perfect English. Urgh!!

We finally board my flight after hours in transit due to a bad booking. I have my mask on throughout and nearly jump out of my seat when I hear the most awful sound of this desperately wet, deep-spittled and deep throated cough behind me. The nice lady next to me, a stern matron, freezes. We bond in that instant and roll our eyes at each other. We both have masks securely on and sigh with relief.

As we settle into pre-flight checks, it comes again. This time there is no mistaking the sound. It is that godawful cough again and it has just disbursed a few million bacteria all over us. Yuck.

Another cough and that is enough. Is this person jettisoning paan as well?? I imagine stains on the tiny window.

I pull out my strip of cough lozenges and turn around, offering it between the seats to find no takers. The lady next to me turns behind and sternly orders the couple to take a lozenge. They refuse! They actually refuse! The husband sheepishly days it’s not him. The wife in her pink sari and white sweater nonchalantly declares her cough is normal and she doesn’t wear a mask.

Auntie is having none of this and firmly insists she takes a lozenge which the woman is too stunned to now refuse. Peace ensues the rest of the flight and the coughing resumes with touchdown.

I am finally home after all this people watching, my senses over stimulated after ten days of sunlight and cold winds and silence in the North Kumaon region, surrounded by icy peaks.

What I would not give to be far from all this madding crowd and run back to the hills of Satkhol and the welcoming warmth of the Himalayan Writing Retreat.