Much like in the South (of USA), where we take something as healthy as a green tomato and then proceed to fry it, if there is a singular purpose Bengali food stands to serve, it has to be to scoff at your best cholesterol limiting medicines. You can name any food – let’s say “aloo” (potato) or “maach” (fish) or “dim” (egg) or go to more esoteric “uchhey” (bitter gourd), “kumro” (simple gourd), “begun” (egg plant), “potol” (need to find the English word)… You just throw in a suffix “-bhaja” at the end and yep! you have gotten yourself a delicious Bengali dish.

Add a healthy dose of white rice, your expertise in mixing that with the “bhajas” like an expert masseur’s bare fingers kneading thru your tight muscles and you have successfully created the first course of a Bengali meal. The last course is usually an antacid. For every Bengali meal worth writing home about is bookended by a loud burp first and then an “ombol” – acid induced indigestion – a couple of hours later.

You will get an idea about how frying is deeply embedded in our psyche when I tell you how many of our idioms involve frying. You are just being lazy? That is frying “bheranda”. Because we tend to be very lazy (but intellectually sharp), we have another one to separate the degrees of laziness – frying “khoi”. Want to prove innocence? You do not know how to turn your fried “maach” over to eat it. And so on and so forth…

After finishing up with DN, I went down to see if I could get myself a light dinner. There is nothing light about the full spread of a JW Marriott dinner. By the time I am done surveying what is on display, I usually forget what I had seen in the first half. So, to narrow my scope, I went straight to the Bengali corner.

Not to be disappointed, you can see (the picture is a little indistinct) your familiar – “jhuri aloo-bhaja”, “potol-bhaja”, “begun-bhaja”, “corola-bhaja”, “eta-bhaja”, “seta-bhaja” … and then the rice!!

Somehow felt very comforted that I am back to my roots!!!

You may remember DN from an old post. He started as an assigned driver from the hotel I was staying in 1998 and today he and his family are intricately tied to my family, my brother’s family and with my parents when they were alive.

Brother was in Guwahati. So, DN was there at the airport to pick me up. As always, we were talking about his family on our drive to the hotel and he was asking after mine. At some point, I mentioned how Sharmila and I were enjoying our retired, empty nesting lives. I asked him what will he do when he retires and all kids are gone.

He said he will go back to Bihar (where he is from). I cast some doubts on his plans. Wouldn’t all his friends be here? Wouldn’t medical facilities be better here?

He felt that he was very close to his relatives in his village and other villagers in general. And that, somehow, people there respect him. That is where he wants to die.

Around that time – about 4:45PM, when he had started talking about his plans after his last daughter gets married, we arrived at our hotel. I had my evening free (I had kept it that way expecting jet lag to hit me hard) and my brother was still half a day away from meeting me.

“Aap shaam ko kya kar raha hai?” I asked (What are you doing this evening?)

“Kuch nahi. Aap kahin jaayenge?” (Nothing really. Do you want to go somewhere?)

“Nahi. Aaj to tired hoon. Aap gaari park karke lobby mein aa jaayie. Main check in kar leta hoon. Phir aap ke saath chai piyenge”

I asked him to park the car and come to the lobby. I will finish my checking in and join him for tea.

In reality, I did not even have to do that. Indrani (duty manager in the hotel) was ready with my keys and she sent the luggage straight to my room. I grabbed DN and went to the top floor to have some tea with him in the exec lounge. If you did not know this, Indian hotels, especially the big ones, are a consummate meeting points for smartly dressed folks who gather there just to hang around and enjoy all the facilities of a hotel – not to speak of the air conditioning in this oppressive hot and humid weather. And taking a lot of selfies of course. If those pictures did not go to social media, it is like that event had never even happened. So, the lobbies tend to be very crowded.

The lounge upstairs gave us a quiet refuge where we could sit and talk for a long time.

Which we did. For four straight hours!! Needless to say, I avoided the whole hysteresis curve of having coffee to wake up only to have wine and feel sleepy later. So, went for the Old Fashioned straight!!

However, in those four hours, I heard about DN’s post retirement dream. He took me thru his entire family chain starting from his grandfather and how his land was divided between his dad and his uncle and then how those have been further subdivided among their sons. (The daughters always get married off and they do not get any land).

He took me thru how he has divided his dad’s property between his younger brother, half-brother and himself. And his plans of building a house in his side of the land. At some point we were deep in Google Maps looking for Dharampur Asli in Bihar and then looked up his plot of land thru satellite pictures.

We were so engrossed in the story that we had some paper, pen and a pad brought up to sketch the whole plan of how the land has been divided in the family and where he was going to build his house after retirement.

By 9, I was too tired and he needed to go back home to his family.

While DN is no stranger to me, it felt enriching to talk to him about a part of his life that I was not exposed to at all!!!

And I did not even get to fly from here!!

Chennai was the first airport I got to visit. This was way back in 1988. Predictably, it looked nothing like the swanky look today of. Nonetheless, I remember it as a very imposing structure and I was mesmerised by the fact that the whole building was air conditioned. Funny thing is that I was not going to fly. In fact, I would not be taking the first flight of my life for another 3 years when I turned 25. I was there due to a mishap and one stranger’s incredible kindness.

Let me spool this back.

One afternoon around lunch time in college, I received a telegram. That simply said that my friend Pratyush’s dad had passed away and I was to send him home post haste. Pratyush is my dear friend from Durgapur and he was studying in HIET college in Guindy not too far from my college. His brother – Debatosh – had sent the message to me.

A bit rattled, I dressed up, went to the bank, withdrew some money and took one of those green PTC buses to head towards him. All the time thinking thru how was I going to give him the bad news. And I could not get over the fact that Mr. Paul who had passed away was actually with Pratyush and me in Chennai barely 48 hours back!! We had seen him off the previous day on the 8AM Coromandel Express!! Apparently he had died from a massive cardiac arrest after reaching home in Durgapur.

Anyways, I located Pratyush in his class, interrupted the professor and explained to him the situation, and brought back Pratyush to his room. I was helping him pack his suitcase as he continued to fight his tears back in a state of shock. All this time, I was thinking thru which train might get him home fastest. I was targeting Howrah Mail that night.

After getting all his things in order, he and I set out to go to the train station. A couple of his friends joined us to help me. There we were – standing at the bus stop – waiting for a bus to take us to Guindy station (from where we would proceed to Madras Central station). I was running thru in my mind Plan A, Plan B, Plan C and all that. We were unlikely to get a reservation. Should I send him by RAC? Put him on Waiting List? Go by next morning’s Coromandel? May be I can show the telegram to the train guard and get him to help us? This was going to be a 33 hour train ride after all!!

I had stepped into the road, impatiently looking at the direction of the bus when a cruising car came by. There was a young gentleman driving it. He seemed to have taken the car out to go for a nice drive. He was not in a hurry. He was by himself.

I stepped back on the pavement to give the car the right of the way. The car, for whatever reason, stopped next to us. There were nobody else near us. I figured he needed some directions. Instead, he asked us where were we going. I told him about Pratyush’s plight and that we needed to get to Guindy station quickly. Going out on a limb, I asked if he would be so kind as to drop us at the station – which would have been a 6 minute drive, tops.

He said sure. We all jumped in. I sat next to him. He asked me about what was going on. I gave him a lot more details – that Pratyush actually had to get to Durgapur. First stop would be Kolkata and that before all that I had to get him a ticket.

“Maybe I can drop you folks at Central Station, if you want?”

“No, no, we can manage by train,” I quickly replied. I was struck by his kindness and empathy. Just to be sure, I also knew it was five of us – so we were not likely to get into any danger.

“Okay”.

And he kept driving. Then he asked – “He has to reach as soon as possible, right?”

“Yes. I am not sure how long they will keep the body before cremating it.”

“Have you thought of flying him?”

“Well, no. I have no idea about airplanes. I do not even know how to buy a ticket. Let alone the price.”

“It will be about Rs 3000. You want to think about it?”

I looked around to the four others. Among the five of us, we did have that much cash.

“Let’s do it.”

There is one side story here. Pratyush and Debotosh always trusted my judgment and sense of responsibility. None of that was deserved, I am sure. But then, it was what it was. That is why it was I who had received the telegram and also why Pratyush had left me to make all the decisions.

With that firm decision, the gentleman turned around the car and sped towards the airport.

It was a very different feeling. I did not know what an airport looked like much less a flight ticket.

Presently, we pulled up to this big building and the gentleman parked the car right next to it. He took us to the ticketing counter and stepped back as I finished the transaction. I was impressed with a five page leaflet I got. There were three carbon copies of the ticket details in that booklet neatly bound together with two staples.

The gentleman offered to drop the rest of us back. We said we would hang around with Pratyush since he was not in a good mental state.

“That makes sense,” he said and went away. We waved at him as long as we could see the car.

Inside the airport – and in those days, it did not have all the strict security of today, I roamed around in complete amazement. Like I had mentioned, the air conditioning, the long glass walls, the smartly dressed people, the authoritative announcements, the no-nonsense CISF security – it was something that had me spellbound. But it was too expensive for me to try out in the near future.

As Sridhar dropped me at the airport today, I looked it up and down and took quite a few pictures musing to myself that this is exactly where I had seen my first airport and wished that someday I would be able to afford to fly!! Very out of the world feeling.

Incidentally, we never saw the gentleman again. Later, we had taken many a walk along the road hoping to spot a light blue Premier Padmini. Never did. That is a shame. We never got a chance to say Thank You properly to the stranger!

Took a shower, grabbed breakfast/lunch/dinner depending on whether my body thinks it is in Atlanta/Doha/Chennai, finished up some important mails and messages, notified Sharmila and my brother about my whereabouts and headed out of the Lounge. This is a routine I have developed over the last few years. If I have enough time, I walk around the airport for 30-45 minutes to do some people watching and observe what goes on in an airport.

Any one of you who has traveled thru global hubs like Doha, Dubai, London, Singapore will relate to the richness of experience you are bound to have. Airports like Doha are a veritable congregation of folks from all corners of the world. Like a United Nations of Airplane Flyers. It is like humanity of every creed and credence crystallize here in a show of solidarity to be together for a brief few minutes under the same roof and then they dissolve away in their own contrails.

As I observe the scene around me, I see some are running to their gates, barely able to catch their breath. Some are browsing the expensive stores – from a very safe distance, mind you and some elderly folks are visibly ill at ease with the complexities of a modern airport.

In the middle of the airport, there is a huge yellow bear or pikachu or something like that. It is very well lit and is like the meeting point at Grand Central Station under the clock in New York. Faced with the resplendence of the area and the sheer scale of things, awe struck people gather here to perform that one singular thing that inspirational moments trigger you to do. Take a selfie!

Today, there is that dish-dash clad smart looking young gentleman in one corner taking a picture of himself effortlessly. And not to be outdone, there is that hijab-wearing elderly lady trying to do the same – with a bit of balancing act with the phone on the other side. One particular spot has been taken up for some time by this young, Indian-looking girl who just is not pleased with the amount of smile she has been putting in her last thirty selfies. Between going from an ear to ear grin to sporting a Mona Lisa version, she seems to be unable to capture the full charm of her countenance. Short of her jaw muscles giving in, I am not sure how she is going to put a stop to this.

I shuffle on. At the turn is that store that stands as an antithesis of that old “What glitters etc etc” saying. Here everything is glittering and everything is gold. In the sea of faces I could see peering into all the jewelry, nary was a person who did not have Indian descent. By mistake, a Caucasian lady stepped in to see what all the hullabaloo was all about and then swung back to her husband from who she had momentarily strayed, telling him nonchalantly: “Oh! It is gold”. Much to the bewilderment of all the Indian looking ladies who had that “What do you mean- ‘It is gold’? IT IS GOLD” look around them. The difference in values assigned to golden jewelry between the Oriental and the Occidental women is remarkable.

I continue walking and glancing here and there. There is, of course, many walking while looking into their phones. Quietly. And then there are those who are also looking into their phones but from their animations and loud volume, you know they are on a video call with their near and dear ones. Well, far and dear ones, I guess. Speaking of volumes, you might be forgiven for thinking that the art of earbuds and headphones has been lost in this part of the world. Every body invites you to overhear what their conversations are all about.

Then, there is that lady over there speaking loudly – alternately speaking to this guy – who has the hapless look of a unamused husband written all over his face – in Gujarati and then turning around to argue with the person at the lounge gate in broken English that she absolutely should be given access to go in.

Right around that lounge is the duty free shop. To keep up with stereotypes, of course, there is a turbaned Sikh gentleman studying up all the scotches on show. If you folks do not have any Sikh friend, you should make one. They are absolutely the most fun loving and trustworthy friends you will ever have. And I do not know why, they always speak in soft voices to go with their kind characters.

Oops! I almost bumped into a bunch of men. A pen in the duty free shop had caught my eye and I had gotten distracted by it. Alas! That was no fountain pen. It was your run of the mill ball point. (Then again, all ball points are run of the mill to me). But back to those men – four of them. They were headed towards A gates. Which is where I needed to be. Gate A5 to be precise. I just followed them, keeping myself out of their earshots. And studying them.

They seemed to be from the African continent. Two of them had the long flowing clothes, one had trousers and shirt and the other one had T-shirt and jeans. The trousers guy had slippers on, two others had non descript shoes but one had a flashy set of footwear. Two had fez-es on their head, one had a base ball cap and the other had nothing but a rich lock of dark jet hair. As differently as they were dressed, they all sported nicely trimmed beards and were obviously very familiar with each other, given the amount they were talking to each other.

And then somebody said something. And all stopped in their tracks. In the middle of other passengers milling around them. I stopped too. One then walked up to one of those airport folks and said something. The other gentleman nodded and my friend handed over his phone to him. I am sure you have guessed what was going to follow.

The airport gentleman backed off a few yards and the quartet took position standing side by side. As if by some elementary laws of fluid mechanics taken straight from the introductory pages of a physics book, the milling crowd started going around the quartet and not in front of them. I think this is the Law of Photo Bombing in Fluid Dynamics. For what seemed like at least ten minutes, the airport gentleman took many photos, turned around the phone, took some more photos and just as he started walking towards the quartet, my slipper wielding friend gesticulated wildly while taking his baseball cap off. Back the airport gentleman went to his spot for Take Two.

Finally, he handed the phone over to the rightful owner. The other three gathered around him as he swiped right thru the pictures only to be interrupted by the others who would use two of their fingers to zoom some part of the screen – no doubt to check how he looked in the picture. Every picture drew some approving nods but not all!!

I am sure each one of you can relate to what I just witnessed. I have seen this in every coffee meeting of our runners group, every dinner meeting, drinks at bar with friends, vacation crowd, family gatherings….

Just then, they called my flight.

As I went around my quartet friends hearing them say some unintelligible words in Arabic (except I recognized when they said “Facebook”), I felt strangely reassured by the fact that even in this ever divisive world we have today, there are some things – a bit vain as they might be – that still unites all of us in our behaviors cutting across race, color, gender and what have you!

P.S. I was not sure what picture to put for this post. So, I did the other common vain thing… I took a “selfie” after I sat down in the plane!

Over thirteen years of going to India every quarter always centered around only one objective – it was my parents. Peripherally, it created opportunities to see my siblings, Sharmila’s side family, my old school mates, my old teachers and so many strangers. But the purpose was singularly focused on my parents.

Then Covid stopped travel for a year. In that year, both of them passed away in quick succession. After that I made a few quarterly trips and they were all focused on settling up all their stuff in India. After disposing off the final item – their house – last September, my trips to India came to a grinding halt.

I still am very close to my siblings (I talk to both of them every single day) and love the late night (for them) chats on WhatsApp with the nephews and niece. But, I never felt the urge to go to India. My brother and sister would encourage me constantly to come and visit them. Admittedly, my ever concerned sister would wrap herself in knots alternately pleading me to come and visit them and then immediately urging not to come since it has gotten indescribably hot in India!!

From my point of view, as much as I want to see them, I don’t understand why it has to be in India. And if India, why in Kolkata/Kalyani (where they are and my parents were). I would rather go visit some beautiful spots in India and meet them there. For the last six months, I could not get them to agree to meet me in the Andamans.

All that said and done, I did decide to go to India for a few days. There is an exigency in US that sort of forced my hand but that is a story for another day.

So, here are my goals this time – outside of meeting immediate family from my and Sharmila’s side –

(*) In my effort to focus on my parents in the past, I did not get a chance to meet a lot of my slightly distant cousins and nephews and nieces. Many, I last met in my old village and many I have not met at all. Some are 10 years older to me and some were born in post-Covid era!! I will make amends this time.

(*) And here is the most exciting part… I am actually not flying into my normal destination. I am landing somewhere else in India. There is this elderly couple – parents of a friend of mine from college days – that I have been wanting to see for a very long time. I will write about them in a different post but I am determined this time to meet them and say Thank you to them – for the generosity they had extended to me the summer of 1986 when I got a chance to stay with them – before I take yet another flight to go to my home town.

So there… that be my tour this time!