Hangar Harangue

"Maggi, Nitin's here," yells mom. "Ok, why don't you take the brat by hand and walk out first? I'll follow you with the bags. Oh, and please ask Nitin to help me with the heavier suitcases," I call out. Who needs a car with a chauffeur when you can ride in Nitin's taxi anytime you fancy? It sure does help when one's mother is a teacher and her former students have become taxi owners/drivers. Whew! I've maxed out on the number of check-in bags I can take with me. There're four humongous softcases, two of which supposedly belong to the brat. The fact that they're packed to the brim with my things is a secret known only to me. Gone are the days when I could travel across oceans armed with only a backpack and one tiny VIP suitcase.
After a hot bumpy ride on BMC's "flyovers" we finally reach the airport. I'm relieved to see that the bags Nitin has strapped on top of his taxicab are still very much intact, pitted asphalt notwithstanding.
I hate goodbyes. So, with a quick nod in the general direction where my parents're standing, I bustle off into the cool confines of Mumbai's international airport. It is a chore to push the heavily loaded luggage cart with one hand while trying to control a rambunctious 6-year-old and her assortment of dolls with the other. Young Marathi dudes with spiffy haircuts usher us to the correct security check line. Our bags make it through the screening area and everything is handed back to me bound and tagged with tape that has "Air India" stamped all over it. We finally make it to the check-in counter. "Hi Natasha! How are you this evening?" I ask the uniformed beauty at the counter. She looks young enough to be a high school senior. "How do you know my name?" is the response. "Oh, you helped me file the missing luggage report when I flew in three weeks ago," I tell her. "Ah!" she smiles. "I see that your bags did make it, Ms. M," she beams. "Yes, the bags did make it. Many of the things that were inside those bags didn't," I'm tempted to tell her. However, I merely nod in assent. What's the point of rehashing my troubles.
Check-in process completed I wander towards the general area of the gate. It's past midnight. There're not many shops open at this time. I'm hungry. So is the brat. "Let's try the sandwich bar inside the coffee shop" I suggest. "Not that yucky disgusting place. Remember how you forced me to eat a sandwich there and I ended up with diarrhoea during our last trip?" she accuses. I'd better listen to her this time. I certainly do not want to repeat history. Out comes the methi theplas mom so thoughtfully packed us this time around.
I look around the deserted waiting lounge. Not many people to watch, except for the families stretched out on the dirty torn fake leather chairs. All the television sets in the lounge are tuned to Star News. Some village locals seem to be pretty displeased about some bus that has plunged into some ravine in the Chambal valley. Apparently the bus was filled with school kids on a field trip. I'm about to doze off into a drone induced slumber from the monotonous pitch of the anchor's voice. "Yikes! I'll be darned...if it isn't Maggi. After all these years!!" shrieks some woman in the foreground. I'm jarred awake. Did someone call out my name? I look around bewildered. For a moment I'm lost. I can't recall where I am. Then it all comes back.
"You'd better not have forgotten me," shrieks the female. "I know you recognize me, so I won't bother with the hope-you-remember-me line," she continues. Omigod! It's Snigdha, a friend from my days in the convent. It's been 17 years since I saw her last. "Of course I know you," I shriek back. "I'm older now, but not senile yet," I smile. We hug each other like the long lost buddies that we are. "Guess what! Meenu's here too. She's flying back to Canada, it seems," says Snigdha. "Really? I haven't seen her in 10 years."
I can't quite believe the swift turn of events. The dull three hour wait for my flight was turning out to be the crowning glory of my trip. The hours zip by. All too soon, it's time for goodbyes again. A stern looking Air India employee is shaking his head at me. They've apparently paged me three times already. I've supposedly been holding up the flight.
I guess I should apologize for my lapse. However, I'm not really filled with remorse at all. Instead, I bend down and touch the employee's feet. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity to meet my long-lost buddies," I tell the astonished man. "Let the plane wait. I want to spend some more time here," I plead still clinging to his polished Bata shoes. "What nonsense!" cries the man while using his walkie-talkie to radio some backup. "Snigdha, don't make me go. Tell the man we're meeting after 17 years," I look at my friend. She and Meenu squirm with embarrassment.
Security officials come rushing towards me. I let go of the death grip on the AI guy's feet only to grab the calf of the biggest guard. Several hands try to pry me away. "No, no" I cry out. "Please let me be!" I thrash my legs and shake my head to no avail. Suddenly, I realize how ridiculous my behavior must seem to everyone present. What had come over me? Why was I holding on to some stranger's feet? That too when he was merely a much-hated airport official?
I sober down and my arms hang loose beside me once again. Strong arms grab and shake me. I come to my senses. I see mom's worried face. I look around confused and disoriented. How come I'm home? Where's the airport? Where are the stern officials? Where's Snigdha?
Then, the lightbulbs go off in my brain. Yay! I can dream again. Yes, the stress is definitely wearing off. Apparently, so is the insomnia.