The journey begins amidst a sleepy city where the dust is settling down slowly. Homeless in the parks, and at traffic junctions. In a land of booming construction, finding a roof to sleep under has become impossible. Muncipal workers waking up to clean the roads, hard pressed to maintain cleanliness only to repeat the chore again. The growth of the city being measured by the amount of garbage that has to be collected or not, depending on where you live.
Airports have a new currency. Your worth is measured by how heavy and the number of luggage you have. There is a new attitude amongst airport workers and it takes some getting used to. Gone are the days of porters pestering you. Instead you encounter smartly dressed professional porter service agents in blue with tags identifying them. The small stalls selling tea are out and are replaced by duty free shops and hotel lounge, and looks out of place.
The country is a land of gestures, nods, and looks. As I wait in the line, a custom officer appears to be making some deal with one of the passengers. The immigration officer takes a look at my passport and murmurs his question. Maybe he is sleepy. It is one in the morning! Perhaps he is bored. The same NRIs come and go and he has to ask the same old questions. The Airport is a space where dreams and aspirations of Indians and its NRIs meet in a fleeting moment…and where bawling babies, loud and incomprehensible announcements rudely awaken one from a nap….some things have not changed, and seem eternal.
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