Rise of a Doomed Soul (First Part)

Have you ever had a moment, when all other things of yours, including the ones which remained so dormant for years, that you already have forgotten their existences, like the rise of goosebumps or burning of lobules, get so buoyant that you want to scream out your tonsils? And you wish to keep screaming and yelling and screaming until everything before you just bursts and vaporises, and then you discover that you can’t even fucking move your own fucking tongue, as if it was never there, or underneath it, there is black void, just like space!

I had.

The airport looked otherworldly and shiny even at midnight. The massive thick glasses put a thin barrier between two worlds. Lit and dark. The ‘left-overs’ looked through the see-through wall and waved their loved ones, the ‘goers’, who soon would be vanished beyond numerous kiosks and then beyond the horizon. And I stood against a pillar absolutely in drunken stupor. My gaze was particularly at no where, but I am certain, it covered everything. That terrible space underneath my tongue grew weird, becoming heavier on every breath. I never had before, but I gauged that I might be attacked by panic. So I gasped, and then I forced my nose to inhale more air, which filled my tongue with more bitterness and lungs with more toxins. I coughed out those air instantly and held against the pillar to keep standing on.

How I wished that I had a time machine (even a tiny one would do), and I would be little less stupid, and be inside of the airport, other side of the glass wall, a ‘goer’, having my papers ready to board the flight for London, and the next day I would see my daughters, savouring their first reactions and brilliant smiles, and a quick eye contact with Taniya, and a little sublime touch! How much dopey one could be to fuck up this bad! I covered my face with palms, except I wasn’t playing picaboo with Oishikaa, my toddler daughter, rather I felt the sudden drop of my heart, as if it fell through a massive black hole and the whole world, along with me span wild. I pushed my trolly aside and stared blank. Gradually, the evening came back to me.

It was my last day in Delhi for a while. I have got an assignment in London for three years and finally, not only I could be united with my family, but also I could get some real work in months (they don’t let you work in preparatory times…du’h!). The waiting was mind-wrenching, but to my surprise, the leaving was similarly tormenting. I was leaving some close friends who never sought permission before pulling legs, a jolly office where everybody was unbelievably nice and a cool boss who didn’t behave like a boss. I didn’t exactly fall in love with Delhi, but I grew fond of it, like routinely meeting a charming face in metro, or a quick nice flirt in a bar. And I wanted to see my boss before leaving.

('Adarsh' Sir)

So I booked an Uber for Nizamuddin and convinced the young driver to go offline. I had few detours to make, and a fixed cab certainly would be handy. My boss arranged a small party in BSF Club. Once there, I drank a little, ate a little and felt massive sadness. We were a great team, and our bondings outgrew the work. We forgot our ages and ranks and did some pretty crazy stuffs together. At the end, before I took off, he hugged me tight, and wished me luck. I knew he’d be sad, but he’d be one of the happiest too. My voice chocked. I knew that I’d terribly miss him.

I called Shailabh on the way. It’d take forty minutes to reach Gurgaon, but perhaps by that time the biryani shop would be closed for the day. Shailabh offered to help, and I couldn’t say no. The biryani was important. Way too important. Recently Paradise opened two branches in Gurgaon and Taniya picked the smell from London. Till we revelled in the piquant biryani plates with succulent pieces of meat in a station side restaurant named Paradise on our way back from Golconda nine years ago, we religiously tried random biryani in Delhi and Kolkata, including the street ones claiming to serve authentic Hyderabadi Biryani, to relive the old melting vibes inside. But like every other little things, it was the hardest thing to get. So that so, Taniya already has planned for a short detour for Hyderabad during her home leave this year, just for an incessant gala of biryani. Hence, this sudden discovery jubilated her (in the prospect of saving money and time), and I received an unsmiling no-kidding instruction and then several don’t-fuck-me-up reminders to bring the famed biryani from Gurgaon to London.

(Reeti and Shailabh)

I reached Sector 14 around eleven at night and was greeted by Shailabh’s gorgeous eccentric wife, Reeti. In a moment, Shailabh spurted out from the restaurant grinning, which definitely had that ominous sign that you, my boy, is fucked. “Your luck ran out man”, he announced while pushing himself through the concrete barriers. “They finished their biryani”.

The other Paradise branch was four miles away, in Raheja Mall. However, the closing time was same, eleven. I found a phone number from Google and dialled and somebody picked up. Considering my regular tryst with bad luck, it was a miracle or Taniya’s romantic rendezvous with biryani that the guy on the other end in his jolly voice agreed to pack four plates at once and to keep that aside until we reach, provided we be there in twenty minutes.

My young cab driver had the Map dependency syndrome more than infants had on their mothers or millennials on Instagram. And as usual Google Map tricked him. We lost Shailabh’s vehicle in a mile or so, and took a wrong turn. By the time, I reached Raheja Mall, the place looked deserted. It was way past twenty minutes. I called him, and Shailabh played Angel again. He already had picked up four packets and emerged through the door beaming, which perhaps was the most beautiful synchronised piece of demonstration of popped up teeth and stretched up lips, graced with squinted eyes. It’s magical that how a single face could manifest two contrasting smiles! Like chalk and cheese. Like Shailabh and Reeti.

I wanted to hang out more with this amazing couple, but time was short. I had to catch a flight exactly in two and half hours. The airport was twelve miles away, and there could be serious congestion in highway. I hugged Shailabh and profusely thanked Reeti for doing me a great favour and literally saving my marriage. Once I was seated in cab, I called Taniya and told her that I was on the way, and soon I’d be with her, with the kids and I couldn’t wait anymore. Taniya enquired about biryani and then told me to call her once when I was at Boarding gate. Comfortably seated, I began chatting with the driver. Strangely he belonged to Gurgaon, though he had been staying at Ghaziabad for a year or so. We laughed along for the fact that he missed Raheja Mall, despite being a local. Little did I know that I would do something dumber in a few minutes, which would put myself in the map of great fat-heads, like forever.

(Terminal Three)

The road to airport was glamorous. I always liked this stretch. Lush greenery, fast-lane and glitzy hotel buildings, and then the view of stunning Airport, a structure mostly made of glass. The driver parked at taxi lane and I got down. I paid him Rs. 1500, as agreed before, and he demanded more. I gave him another 500. I was happy, and I had an excuse, that in London my Indian currency would be dust. I took out my large three spinners and put them on a cart, and placed the small one on top. I waved him goodbye and he waved me back.

Slowly and carefully, I walked towards the entry gates. It was always an underrated art to successfully control and push an overcrowded cart either in a supermarket or airport. As I struggled with the cart against the little bumps on lanes, or for sudden brakes from oncoming vehicles, the top trolley, which contained all of my travel documents and laptop and precious packets of Biryani, tripped over several times. I stood at the fag end of a serpentine line, formed in front an entry gate, where a security personnel checked papers and passports with such sombreness that anybody could mistook him for a masterly crafted and strategically placed mannequin. The line moved like a snail, one inch at a time and when there was only a family of five in front of me, I tucked my hand into the top pocket of the small bag for my ticket and passport. They were not there. I delved my fingers further, and searched them, and then like a huge thunderbolt or the brilliant sparkling lights only to be seen in Ekta Kapoor serials, it struck me.

I LEFT the whole folder, which contained my official passport and ticket for London, in the cab. WORSE, I kept them on the roof of the cab, and WORST, the cab already left for like ten minutes! It could be anywhere now.

(Pl see the next entry)