Global = La Blog

Here I am penning this last blog from the “hallowed” US of A. This is typically a virtual blog, for it’s being keyed in on Microsoft Word, as the hotel I’m temporarily sheltered doesn’t provide an ubiquitous Internet access. For people wondering what I’m up to in an hotel, when I’m supposed to be trans-Atlantic, here’s a not-so-small preview of this eventful day’s events.

All starts with a heavy, both on plate and at heart, farewell breakfast with a couple of my best friends at Buffalo. One of them, currently ranked atop my “MOST CHEERFULLEST” list, and I don’t think her spot on the podium is under threat for quite a long time, was a total stranger a couple of weeks ago. It’s a privilege to’ve been around such an awesome Piscean, Mimi. In fact, “awesome Piscean” is just a redundant phrase, for all Pisceans are awesome (I'm one :). I could only ponder at this dilemma: Am I gonna treasure the ensemble of the jigsaw pieces of the Natural Bridges National Monument or should I regret knowing the wonderful geologist for so less a time. I, unmistakably, pick the former, for three “Potter-crazy kids” at work is magical enough to vie with Ms. Rowling’s on-the-back-burner seventh mesmerism. Just placing the other of the two secondarily on this blog, doesn’t miniaturize the monstrosity of her companionship. She is probably the only one to’ve minisculed my pride of always being the one to present the best gifts. Your gift smiles at me as 2:25:02 am. You are gifted, Archana, and so am I – gifted with such a wonderful friend.

Waving goodbyes made me realize the long list of friends I’d made at Buffalo. As I felt the breeze in my hair, while being driven to the airport by a fast-paced female cab driver, the emotions were as intense as the wind. The moment I was clear of the formalities at the check-in, all I could find was hundreds of minds all in their own individual microcosms. Some, like me, were seemingly gazing into the horizons of nothingness, but at least I was veiling a tumult of emotions, resultant of the eager heart to get back home after two years, as well as crumbling under the active distance from a home of two years, under a relatively calmer visage, and so must the others would’ve been. Two hours would’ve been an era, if not for bright smiles on a few kids’ faces. I was curbing my itch to pen about this on paper, for a confirmed ticket to the city of the Gateway of India was primordial on my mind. So, now that I would be boarding the twelve-hour-delayed flight, attributed to the Mumbai monsoons, in about six hours from now, I can peacefully carve these flowing stagnant freezes of the day.

The flight to Newark was short, with me, most of the time, ogling, not at the stewardess but, at the mountainous clouds and the microscopic, albeit hazy, landscape beneath. Arrival was fifteen minutes ahead of the schedule, and I took time to collect my baggage and traverse the “millions” of stairs of the airport escalators to nowhere, because after scaling half-a-million of them, I realized I was in the wrong terminal. The expedition against another half million continued, and there wasn’t an inkling of doubt upon scaling the summit, for I was greeted with scores of Indian faces. Joining the ever-growing queue, I waited, yearning to get on AI144, which, I didn’t know, was delayed by a dozen massive hours. Being surrounded by so many Indians and the lousy pace of the queue were enough reasons to make a few friends. Dilip is a software professional from TCS, and was on the same flight, and the same boat. He was through with the check-in, while I was stranded, for a few minutes though, because I had booked my tickets online and the people at the check-in counter were not able to confirm mine, owing to the AirIndia Website being inoperable. Thanks to a friendly official, I was able to feel the boarding pass between my fingers. The delayed flight sent three scores of Indians to the Holiday Inn, while there was space for just fifty. The other fortunate ten, with Dilip and I amongst them, after a to-and-fro fatiguing shuttling, have been sheltered at Robert Treat Hotel – their plaque read “Hotel of the American Presidents” and four of the elite hundred had been in it. Well, 4% seems to be a major proportion to such publicity-mongers.

I should be on AI144 in less than 6 hours, happily ensconced with The Half Blood Prince. So, it’s curtains now..

Day2

With the trans-Atlantic flight in sight, we were happy to finally board the plane to “Mumbai-or-Delhi” – the crew was to decide upon the destination midway at Paris, for such was the fury of monsoonal rains in Mumbai. I having penned the previous day’s events hadn’t slept a bit and so was first to hit the sack even as the “drinks” trolley went teetering by. I woke up with the hope that we were near the Louvre, and was craning my neck to spot the illuminated Eiffel Tower beneath, only to be informed that we’d just entered the Europe mainland and that Paris was a few hours away. Boredom crept in, but the dinner trolley pepped up everyone’s spirits. A decent meal and it’s the Charles de Gaulle Airport. The plane was cleaned during the stopover, with every passenger glued to their seats and boredom. New crew aboard had a few ogles while the rest were destined to a forced, albeit uncomfortably poised, sleep. The take-off from Paris had one positive though – a late night meal. I got into half-a-slumber and was hovering over dreamland till about 4am, after which Pottermania awoke me, not rudely though. With the sunlight from the half-open curtains good enough to keep the one next to me asleep and good enough for me to read the Half Blood Prince with renewed curiosity, I patiently hurdled across a few chapters till it was time for a breakfast, after which the sense of curiosity metamorphosed into one of yearning to reach my country. I could see plentiful rivers cutting across innumerous mountain ranges, and felt we were flying over India, but we weren’t, given how long it took us to reach Mumbai from there. Finally, at about noon, we were destined to encircle the Mumbai air space, for the rain gods did not seem very happy. After a couple of hours of monotonous hovering, to both the passengers and the pilot, of course, land was in sight, though Mumbai, deluged under the floods, resembled a shallow stretch of the sea.

The feeling that home was within two hours of flight was more than encouraging to drag our tired torsos across the never-ending stretch of security checks and red tapes. The dreaded rumor that our flight to Chennai will be delayed by a day proved wrong, unfortunately. “Unfortunately” is the word, because, it was eventually delayed by 28 hours. The phrase “So near, yet, so far” seemed nearer to us than ever. After a grudging day’s wait at the Mumbai Airport – should have been rechristened as the “Mumbai Port”, with swirling pools of water within – Air India found a respite out of their bureaucratic mess, the real reason behind the uncut, extended version of the delay, and put us on an Indian Airlines’ flight to Chennai. Physically afresh, but mentally exhausted, all I could recollect of the flight was the pair of sandwiches, and was in dreamland in a jiffy. Consequent of all this confusion and the uncertainty bordering my arrival time – and date, if you get sarcasm – I’d asked my anxious parents to stay put at home, instead of waiting endlessly at the Chennai Airport. A cab – or a taxi, if you prefer – took me home at 8:00am on the second of August, 2005 – 29 hours adrift Air India’s “itinerary”. I had just realized what the phrase “Being at Home” really meant.

Home "Sweat" Home

Being back in the midst of the dear ones was truly energizing. I was abound with vigor and wanted to scale the length and breadth of Chennai, unmindful of the exhaustion I’d been through. Chennai’s heat was a definite dampener, and as I write this, it dampens my shirt with an endless assault on my sweat pores. It would’ve been “Home Sweat Home” if not for the wonderful club of family and friends and the remnant chapters of Half Blood Prince. Home Sweet Home…

Sick and tired

I’m sick and tired, not of the Chennai-ish myriad, but am literally sick. Two years of a sterile environment’s incubation has made my immunity hit its nadir. While buckets of my ever favorite ice cream never bothered me in the US of A, a sliver of ice cream has brought me down with a viral fever. I’m sick and really tired.

La Blog,
Global Blogger…
( A year ago this time of the year, this blog would’ve been titled “Travel BLog”, for all the GISA-related fervor )