Arrivals
In the movie Love Actually, as the end credits roll, there is a beautiful sequence of scenes at Heathrow’s Arrivals Lounge. These then segue into a heart shaped montage.
As I stood in the arrival area of T1 this morning, that scene brought a smile to my face. Around me, there was the usual orderly chaos. The rain had left the fumes of stale food hanging in the air. A hint of vada pav, a whiff of sambar, a gasp of biryani, all fermenting together into an inescapable miasma. The cleaning crew hadn’t started their rounds so the floor was littered, in that casual way Indian public spaces are. The waste receptacles, to be fair, were overflowing. The litter was probably the work of the local scavengers – the crows that even now hopped past me, on the lookout for fresh food, and the rats, who mercifully were out of plain sight at eleven in the morning.
The hotel chauffeurs were out in numbers. Some in white uniforms, others in ill fitted dark jackets. The uniforms smelt of damp and mildew. Some of them looked sleepy – were they coming off a night shift? They stood around, cracking jokes and sharing videos on their phones, name placards carelessly dangling from fingertips. They lolled at the barricade until the passengers spilt out of the gate. Then suddenly, a brisk air swept over them. The placards were held out like supplicants, the sleep dashed out of their eyes and smiles plastered on their faces. As the passengers drifted away, so did the efficient cheerfulness of a moment ago. Their faces wiped clean of animation, their backs slumped, heads bowed.
It always intrigues me to see children at airports on a weekday morning in the middle of the school term. Apparently, playing hooky is endemic amongst our fair city’s infant brigade and their favourite hideout is T1 Arrivals. Seriously, though, these kids this morning weren’t passengers, so I could think of no legitimate reason for their presence. Squirming, wriggling, giggling, they were a part of groups of people waiting to receive a passenger. I say this advisedly – a passenger. Entire families milled around, waiting to uproariously greet a single passenger. Is it an outing for the family? (Chalo, let’s spend a morning at T1. We’ll eat idlis and watch the announcements on the big screen TV.) It seems far fetched but reality is often weird. It can’t be an orientation, can it? (Get To Know The Airport – bring the grannies and kiddies too)…whichever improbable option, the kids were having a fine time, rolling in the muck, faking tantrums in front of the food stalls, gaping and waving at the newly minted passengers who stared at them, befuddled – is that someone I know? How many kids are there in my family anyway? Or in a panicked way – who’s the little kid smiling at me so lovingly? I don’t know anyone in this city….or do I? Damn this jet lag.
The T1 canines were out on patrol. Not the portly sniffer dogs; I mean the local layabouts who had sniffed out a sweet deal. Much like their human counterparts, they lolled in the shade, scratching unmentionable parts and generally welcoming tourists to the real Mumbai. Once in a while, one would reluctantly struggle to his feet and beg for scraps outside the biryani place. The rest watched his endeavours, tongues hanging out of grinning mouths…any sign of success and they were up, growling and gnashing their teeth, jostling for a spot at the table.
Not everyone arriving seemed happy to be here or had a welcoming committee. One family stood stiff and awkward as a young couple walked out of the terminal. The girl made the introductions and the young man shook hands gingerly with the men in the group. The women seemed far more aloof and cut up, refusing to meet the girl’s entreating eyes and turning their backs discreetly on the man. The group moved away in silence, bearing away the tall young man in their midst – a dark dark rose amongst the sharp white thorns.
Just before my dad emerged, an elderly man drifted up to stand next to me. He asked if the Chennai flight had landed. He then volunteered information, in the innocent way of an older generation. He was waiting for his Saab, he confided. His Saab was a big man (bade saab) and was returning to Mumbai after many months. I smiled absent mindedly at him. Dad waved to me from his wheelchair and as I went to meet him, this is what I saw from the corner of my eye: a tiny, wizened man, very frail and weak, being wheeled out, an oxygen mask clamped to his face. The man who had confided in me a few minutes earlier, took one look at his Bade Saab and burst into noisy tears. As Dad and I moved away, my last glimpse was of the elderly man patting the other’s back as the latter crouched beside the wheelchair.
Like!! Great article post.Really thank you! Really Cool.