.jpg)
READ AN EXCERPT
.jpg)
_edited.jpg)
CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC
I
1
SAANVI
I find myself running behind schedule. It is already half past two, and I should have been packing my luggage and heading for the airport by now. Because of my tardiness, I'm forced to make swift decisions to save time. I grab a pouch and start filling it with essentials, knowing I can't afford to waste a moment. Next, comes the makeup, in case I need to groom myself. After all, I want to look presentable during wedding festivities. I meticulously calculate the time and consider what to pack and what to leave behind. Finally, I manage to pack my bags, secure the suitcase lock, grab the room keys, and, well, off I go. It is quarter to four in the afternoon, right on schedule. But I realised I forgot to call an Uber. Seriously Saanvi! Did we really need this? Now? Rebuking myself for such absentmindedness, I quickly book a ride. After waiting for twenty minutes for the cab I am on the road but in slow-moving traffic. If we continue at this pace, there is still a chance for me to arrive before boarding time. Despite the slow traffic, my Uber driver is confident about the road ahead. I get engrossed
in my phone, unaware that we are stuck near Mohan Gokhale Road. At twenty-past-five, still no word from the airline about the flight status. The chaos of traffic only adds to my frustration with vehicles jostling for space. After passing the under-construction metro site, the traffic is worsening with pedestrians weaving through the stalled cars. By 6 pm, it seems likely I have missed my flight. Even my Uber driver suggests cancelling and rebooking for the next flight. This stress is overwhelming, especially for a ‘bride-to-be’, who is heading to her wedding venue.
Arriving at the departure gate of Terminal-1 at ten to eight in the evening, I check the FIDS, only to find no information about the six- twenty Mumbai to Bhubaneswar flight. The check-in line stretches long and I find myself standing behind a tall, curly-haired individual with wheat-coloured skin. His conversation on the phone catches my attention, his humour somewhat amusing yet laced with inappropriate punchlines. All I could focus on, are his broad shoulders cloaked in a summer jacket, with a backpack slung over his left shoulder. The overpowering scent of his cologne fills the air.
CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC
I
He abruptly turns around, and faces me. He has sculpted features and a soft expression with a manly appearance. He shows no response as he registers my gaze, making me acutely conscious of my scrutiny. He checks in before me and disappears from my sight. I glance around, but he is nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, self-awareness floods over me, with my mind racing with thoughts, leaving me consumed by embarrassment of feeling attracted towards a man other than my groom.
Entering the gate, I move straight to the check-in counter to enquire about my flight. The information is as I expected. I swiftly scan for the next flight to Bhubaneswar, scheduled at 00:40 hours. With the confirmation of my booking, I pledge my first pre-wedding resolution which is sticking to the commitments.
I interpret commitment as the promises I've made to myself. My main goal is to become an independent cosmetologist practitioner and establish my clinic and finding a supportive life partner whom I can choose and truly connect with, has always been important to me. However, this wedding is posing a significant obstacle to my commitments.
Suddenly, I realise I have long-haul time in hand, too much to sit and scroll through my phone screen and squander it away. I fish into my handbag and realise that I don’t have a single paper with me to read. I navigate the familiar paths of the terminal building, scanning every concourse in search of the bookshop. Despite my frequent visits to the airport, each arrival feels different, fuelled by the urgency to board the plane. Great! Today I’m bestowed with immense time to sketch an atlas map book for every territory of this aero kingdom. My eyes are drawn to a luminous board engraved ‘Crossword’ on it. I enter the bookshop and search for the fiction shelves. Rows of bookshelves stretch out, and the smell of new prints and inks make me forget the day’s mishaps. My eyes roving over the titles until they settle on Kunal Basu’s ‘The Japanese Wife’. Perfect. Now, all I need is a peaceful corner to lose myself in its pages.
